Chapter 32: 70 Hours War

Castle Albion, Capital City Runepolis, The Holy Milishial Empire

The twilight was fading into the embrace of night as Runepolis, the capital of the Holy Milishial Empire, sprawled beneath the sky like a grand tapestry woven with threads of light and shadow. Castle Albion, the heart of the Empire, loomed over the city, its towering spires piercing the sky like spears, defying the heavens themselves. The golden hues of the dying sun bathed the palace's marble walls, making them glow with an ethereal light that seemed almost divine. This was a city built on magic and power, a place where the very air crackled with the arcane energy that fueled the Empire's dominion over Novus Orbis.

From the vast balcony of the Imperial Palace, Emperor Milishial VIII surveyed his domain with an expression that was both regal and weary. His figure, draped in a heavy robe of dark velvet embroidered with intricate patterns of gold, radiated authority. The robe's hem brushed against the polished marble floor, its richness a testament to the Empire's wealth and the Emperor's enduring legacy. Lucius, as he was known to his closest confidants, stood with a posture that exuded control, yet his eyes—sharp, blue, and deeply set within a face etched with the passage of over 4,000 years—betrayed a burden far heavier than any crown.

The Emperor's high elven heritage, a gift from his long-forgotten ancestors, granted him an ageless appearance that defied the years. Yet the lines carved into his face by centuries of rule were deep, like the scars of a warrior who had seen too many battles. His long, silver hair, cascading over his shoulders, shimmered in the dimming light, a stark contrast to the shadows gathering around him. His presence was imposing, a living monument to the might and glory of the Holy Milishial Empire, yet the weight of countless decisions—each a stone in the edifice of his reign—pressed upon him like a mountain.

Beside him stood Grand Mage Aurelia Flamme, his most trusted concubine and advisor, a figure of striking contrast to the Emperor's imposing stature. Standing at a statuesque height, Aurelia possesses a commanding presence accentuated by her meticulous choice of attire and regal bearing. Her orange hair, styled into a long, thick braid that reaches her knees, is both a symbol of her status and a testament to her unyielding discipline. The braid is interwoven with delicate gold threads, catching the light with every movement, emphasizing her ethereal beauty.

Her clothing, a carefully chosen expression of both her rank and her role, consists of a series of flowing garments that reveal as much as they conceal. The loose tunic and toga she wears are crafted from fine, diaphanous fabrics that drape elegantly over her ample, bare breasts. The material clings just enough to highlight her curves without obscuring her naked skin, creating a tantalizing interplay between exposure and modesty. The tunic's neckline plunges deeply, offering a view of her smooth, flawless skin and accentuating her full, rounded breasts. The sensation of the soft material against her nipples, which were pierced with diamond studs, sent subtle, pleasurable shivers through her body with every movement.

The diamonds adorning her nipples were exquisite, each one carefully set to enhance the beauty of her body. These piercings were more than just decorative—they were symbols of her submission to Lucius, a constant reminder of her role within the palace. The diamonds caught the light as she shifted, drawing attention to her chest and the delicate skin beneath. The subtle weight of the gems against her sensitive flesh added to the complexity of her emotions, a mixture of pride, submission, and the power she wielded as the Emperor's favored.

Her back was bare, the toga artfully arranged to leave her lower body exposed. This deliberate choice ensured that the Emperor's eyes would be drawn to the tattoo on her lower back—a bold, elegant inscription of Lucius's name, the letters curving gracefully just above the swell of her rounded buttocks. The letters were rendered in a script that seemed to shimmer faintly with magical energy, their curves and flourishes a testament to both Aurelia's artistic taste and her unwavering devotion. This tattoo was not merely a decoration but a permanent symbol of her unwavering loyalty and devotion to the Emperor, a mark that proclaimed to the world that she was his, body and soul. Aurelia's lack of any undergarments, leaving her buttocks bare was a calculated decision. It spoke of her openness and vulnerability in Lucius's presence, a physical manifestation of the complete trust and submission she offered him.

Her legs, long and perfectly sculpted, moved with fluid grace, the dark brown shoes on her feet adding a touch of sophistication to her otherwise minimalistic attire. These shoes, with their crisscrossing straps that extended up to her knees, were both functional and beautiful, designed to provide support while enhancing her movements. The straps were adorned with intricate designs, ancient runes of protection and power that reflected her immense magical abilities. They complemented the dark brown band encircling her upper left arm, another mark of her allegiance and high status, a silent declaration of her role within the Empire.

Her accessories were as much a part of her as the clothes she wore. The thick gold bracelets on her wrists, engraved with symbols of protection and power, jingled softly with her movements. These bracelets were more than mere ornaments; they were conduits for her magical energy, amplifying her already formidable abilities and providing a constant reminder of her dual nature as both a mage of unparalleled skill and a concubine of unmatched beauty. Around her neck, Aurelia wore a gold collar, a symbol of her deep connection to the Emperor. This collar, crafted with the finest workmanship, bore a teardrop-shaped red jewel that hung from a delicate chain. The jewel, glowing faintly with an inner light, was not just an adornment but a magical artifact, a talisman of protection and a symbol of her bond with Lucius. It was a constant reminder of her status, of the intimate and powerful connection she shared with the Emperor, binding her to him both physically and emotionally.

Aurelia's role extends beyond her physical appearance. As one of the 100 Legendary Sages of the Immortal Witch Queen Serianthra Melisse, she possesses formidable magical prowess. Her presence in the palace is not merely decorative but integral to the Empire's strategic and mystical operations. She is a blend of intellect and beauty, her mastery of magic a critical asset in the complex political landscape of Novus Orbis.

Despite her prominent position, Aurelia remains deeply aware of her role as a concubine. Her interactions with Lucius are marked by a blend of reverence and intimacy, reflecting the intricate power dynamics at play. Her submissive posture, whether kneeling or standing beside him, is a testament to her dedication and the delicate balance she maintains between personal affection and political necessity.

Aurelia's gaze remained fixed on the chessboard between them, her expression a canvas of concern and curiosity. The pieces—symbols of their empire's strategies and fates—were arranged in a complex, seemingly impenetrable array.

Aurelia's voice broke the heavy silence that had settled over the balcony, a silence that had been filled only by the distant murmur of the city and the soft rustle of her toga. "Lucius," she began, her tone both inquisitive and edged with concern, "why have you allowed the situation to deteriorate to this point? The Senate is rife with corruption, their self-interests blinding them to the needs of the Empire. The Dove faction, in particular, seems to be selling our nation's interests to the highest bidder."

Lucius, seated at a finely crafted table of ebony wood inlaid with gold, lifted his gaze from the chessboard before him. The Emperor of the Holy Milishial Empire was a man of striking features, his age only adding to the aura of authority that surrounded him like a mantle. His hair, once a vibrant black, had silvered with the years, giving him the appearance of a monarch whose wisdom had been forged in the fires of countless battles and political intrigues. His eyes, sharp and calculating, were the color of cold steel, capable of piercing through deception and laying bare the souls of those who dared stand before him. Dressed in imperial robes of deep indigo trimmed with gold, Lucius was every inch the ruler of the world's most powerful nation. The robes flowed around him like liquid darkness, concealing a physique that had not yet succumbed to the ravages of time. His shoulders were broad, his posture erect, and his movements, even when he reached out to move a chess piece, were imbued with a deliberate care that spoke of a mind always in control.

Lucius took a moment before responding, his gaze steady and composed, reflecting the weight of centuries of rule. "Aurelia," he said, his voice calm and deliberate, "sometimes, the path that seems the least harmful is not always the most obvious. The Milishial Empire is undoubtedly the most powerful force in Novus Orbis, but even a mighty empire can be swayed by desires as simple as gold and as dangerous as blood. The Doves, while corrupt, are driven primarily by their greed. They crave wealth above all else, and that very greed, while distasteful, makes them predictable. They are not reckless; they are pragmatic. They understand that war disrupts trade, and trade is the lifeblood of their fortunes."

He paused, allowing his words to sink in before continuing. "The Doves, with all their corruption, limit themselves to the pursuit of money rather than glory. Their aversion to war is rooted in self-preservation—conflict disrupts commerce, hinders profits, and introduces uncertainty into their carefully balanced world. They hate war because it threatens the very foundation of their wealth, and in that hatred, they become useful allies in maintaining peace, however fragile."

Lucius's expression darkened slightly as he shifted the conversation. "But the warmongers, Aurelia, they are far more dangerous. They seek something far beyond wealth—glory, power, conquest. They are not content with the stability that peace offers; they crave the chaos of battle, the expansion of territory, the thrill of victory. These men would gladly plunge the Empire into a costly and destructive war if it meant carving their names into the annals of history. Their ambitions are unpredictable and uncontrollable, driven by a lust for fame rather than the steady accumulation of wealth. I allow the Doves their corruption because it keeps them manageable, predictable. They won't push for war as long as their trade routes remain open and their coffers continue to fill."

His words were delivered with a calm that belied the storm of thoughts swirling beneath the surface. Lucius's gaze remained fixed on the chessboard, where the pieces—carved from the rarest of magical woods and enchanted to gleam with an inner light—were arranged in a complex dance of strategy. Each piece represented a faction, a nation, or a power in the vast game that was the world of Novus Orbis. Lucius's fingers, long and elegant, hovered over a piece, his mind contemplating moves not just on the board but in the far-reaching chess game of global politics.

Aurelia listened intently, her expression unreadable. She was aware of the power dynamics at play, the delicate balance of control and submission that defined their relationship. Lucius was not just her lover or her master; he was the Emperor, the most powerful man in the world, and every word he spoke carried the weight of that power. Aurelia's eyes narrowed as she processed Lucius's words, her sharp mind quickly dissecting the implications. "Then why have you sanctioned the deployment of a task force to Irnetia? This decision could provoke a direct conflict with China."

Lucius's fingers paused above the chess piece, his expression thoughtful as the cold air swirled around them. His next move was not made on a whim; it was the culmination of endless considerations and deliberations. He shifted the piece forward with a deliberate grace, his lips curling into a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Because my son, Caspian, is correct in his assessment. China's growing ambition, if left unchecked, could indeed be the catalyst for the next world war. We cannot afford such a conflict, especially with the demonic Ravernal Empire threatening to return."

Aurelia's stance shifted subtly, the delicate fabric of her toga rustling with the movement. Her eyes, pools of molten amber, studied Lucius with a mixture of admiration and frustration. The Emperor's words were laced with both truth and deception, as was his way. "So if you believe that war with China is necessary to humble them, why permit the Doves to act as intermediaries with the Chinese? Their actions seem treacherous and counterproductive."

Lucius's smile widened, though it remained enigmatic, a blend of warmth and icy calculation. "Because I do not seek war, Aurelia."

"But you just said Prince Caspian is right!"

"No, I said he was correct," Lucius clarified, his voice tinged with a hint of amusement. "China's ambition needs to be humbled, or it will grow uncontrollable. That is a matter of fact. However, being correct is far from being right. That little warmongering son of mine doesn't have a plan. He sees the problem, but he doesn't see the consequences. He seeks conflict without a clear endgame, driven more by his own ambition than by strategic foresight. I cannot allow him to lead us into a war without a well-considered plan."

Aurelia's keen intellect began to piece together the implications of Lucius's strategy. The diamonds on her nipples tingled as she shifted her stance, the sensation grounding her thoughts. The Emperor's mind was a labyrinth, each corridor leading to new revelations, each door hiding secrets within secrets. "So, you have allowed the Doves to engage with China, serving as intermediaries. This way, you aim to test their true intentions and avoid a catastrophic war."

"Exactly," Lucius affirmed, his eyes gleaming with a cold, calculating light that seemed to reflect the very soul of the Empire he ruled. "Communication is essential to prevent unnecessary war. The Doves' role is to act as a bridge, facilitating an understanding of China's genuine objectives. If they can negotiate a peaceful resolution that serves our interests, then so be it. If they cannot, they will expose themselves as liabilities, and I will deal with them accordingly."

Aurelia's gaze grew intense, her mind racing to connect the dots that Lucius had so carefully placed before her. "And Caspian? He will undoubtedly seek to gather evidence against the Doves and prosecute them."

Lucius's lips curled into a faint, knowing smirk that spoke volumes of his confidence in the machinations he had set into motion. "Indeed. Caspian's ambition will drive him to expose the Doves, and in doing so, he will further destabilize their influence. This conflict will be beneficial. It will keep them preoccupied and divided, ensuring their focus is diverted from any grander schemes, allowing us to maneuver with greater ease."

Aurelia's realization struck her like a thunderbolt, her mind reeling with the implications of Lucius's masterstroke. "You orchestrated this entire situation to pit Caspian and the Hawks against the Doves. You intend for them to destroy each other, all while achieving your own ends."

Lucius's smirk widened, his satisfaction and ruthless cunning becoming more apparent. "Precisely. The chessboard is set, Aurelia. Each piece must fulfill its role. The Doves and Caspian are mere pawns in a larger scheme. The Doves must be held accountable for their treachery, and Caspian must be made to see the limits of his ambition. He will learn, in time, that the world is not as simple as he believes. He will learn that power is not just about strength; it is about control, about knowing when to act and when to wait. And when the time comes, he will understand that sometimes, the best way to win a war is to never fight it at all. In the end, it is the Empire that must prevail, not the whims of a few power-hungry individuals."

Aurelia's hand gently traced the edge of Lucius's chessboard, her touch both delicate and reverent. Her fingers, adorned with rings of enchanted gold, seemed to draw out the latent energy within the board, as if she could feel the echoes of the countless battles fought in Lucius's mind. "And what of the task force sent to Irnetia? Will they survive, knowing that they are but pawns in this game?"

Lucius's gaze softened as he regarded Aurelia, her question a reflection of the deep loyalty and affection she held for him. "They will survive if they are strong enough, Aurelia. Only the strongest shall endure and emerge from the fire tempered and unbroken. Those who fall, unfortunately, were never meant to survive in the first place."

Aurelia nodded, her expression solemn but resolute. She understood the Emperor's logic, even if it was harsh. The Empire's strength depended on the survival of the fittest, the most cunning, and the most powerful. And as Grand Mage Aurelia Flamme, she was prepared to play her part in ensuring the Empire's continued dominance, no matter the cost.

The night deepened, the stars above twinkling like a million tiny chess pieces on a cosmic board. As the Emperor and his favored concubine stood together on the balcony, the weight of their responsibilities and the gravity of their decisions hung heavily in the air. The world below remained unaware of the intricate dance of power and deception playing out in the highest tower of the Imperial Palace, a dance that would soon reverberate across the entire Novus Orbis, shaping the fate of nations and the lives of millions.

For in the Holy Milishial Empire, nothing was ever as it seemed.

On Board the Carrier Nanjing

Admiral Li Pengcheng stood at the center of the bridge, his gaze fixed on the tactical display in front of him. The digital map was a sea of red and blue markers, each representing the position of a vessel in this tense standoff. The Milishial task force, led by Rear Admiral Kaelith Morvannis, was making slow but steady progress through the naval minefield. Each time one of their massive ships triggered a mine, a bright flash appeared on the screen, followed by the disheartening sight of the blast dissipating harmlessly against the Milishial magical shields. These were no ordinary shields; they were powered by arcane forces that the Chinese Navy had only recently begun to understand, let alone counter. The sheer power of Milishial's technology was both awe-inspiring and terrifying, a reminder that they were dealing with a nation that had centuries of experience in combining magic and machinery.

Admiral Li, a veteran of countless naval engagements, watched the display with a mixture of respect and frustration. The Milishial task force was cutting through the minefield like a hot knife through butter, their Orichalcum-Class battleships leading the charge, their hulls glowing with the blue light of their activated mana shields. Despite the overwhelming numerical superiority of the Chinese fleet, the Milishial ships moved with a purpose and confidence that belied their smaller numbers. It was as if they knew they were untouchable, their advanced technology rendering them almost invincible.

Li Pengcheng shook his head slightly, suppressing a wry smile. It was almost comical, the way things had played out. Two of the most powerful nations in Novus Orbis, bristling with some of the deadliest weapons ever created, were locked in a staring contest. Billions of Milishial gold coins and trillions of Chinese yuan had been spent on fleets, air wings, and armies that could devastate entire cities. Yet here they were, neither side willing to fire the first shot. The political class, in their infinite wisdom, wanted the tension but not the war—just enough rhetoric and posturing to maintain a semblance of control, like the old Cold War standoffs.

He recalled stories from his academy days, about the Indian and Pakistani forces lined up at their borders, entire divisions of men staring each other down with nothing more than stern looks and empty hands, all in an effort to avoid escalation. It was a mockery of the might they wielded. Here, too, the situation was similar, only on a far grander scale. The Nanjing's flight deck was bristling with aircraft, and the ships under his command were armed with enough firepower to annihilate cities, yet they were ordered to do nothing but posture.

"Admiral," a voice called out, breaking Li's thoughts. It was Captain Tianlong, the ship commander. "The Milishial task force is clearing the last section of the minefield. Our aerial harassment hasn't slowed them down."

Li nodded, his face calm. "As expected. Have the fast boats move in to harass them. We need to buy more time for the 7th Marine Brigade to complete their mission."

"Yes, sir," Tianlong replied, moving swiftly to relay the order.

Li watched the tactical display as small clusters of red markers, representing the PLAN fast attack boats, surged forward. Compared to the 350-meter-long Orichalcum-Class battleships that led the Milishial fleet, the fast boats were insignificant—tiny, agile vessels that could do little more than annoy. But annoy they would, for the Milishial fleet was under orders not to fire unless provoked. The powerful battleships, armed with cannons that could obliterate entire squadrons in a single volley, were reduced to playing a defensive game, swatting at gnats while the real action happened elsewhere.

"Do you think they'll fire back, sir?" Tianlong asked, his eyes flicking nervously between Li and the screen.

Li allowed himself a brief smile. "No, they won't. They can't afford to. Not unless they want to start a war they're not ready to fight. We'll keep them busy, delay them as long as we can. The real battle isn't out here—it's with the 7th Marine Brigade. If they succeed, none of this will matter."

The admiral's mind was focused, his thoughts racing through the possibilities. This was a game of patience, a test of nerves. Each side was probing the other, seeking weaknesses, but neither willing to make the first aggressive move. The absurdity of it all still lingered in his thoughts—two great powers, dancing around each other, both knowing that a single misstep could ignite a conflict neither could control.

As the fast boats closed in on the Milishial fleet, darting in and out like a school of piranhas circling a whale, Li Pengcheng remained stoic. This was just one part of a larger plan, and he knew his role well. The stakes were high, but the outcome would be determined not by these small skirmishes, but by the success or failure of the operation in Irnetia. And for that, they just needed a little more time.

On Board the HMES Invictus Arcanum

Rear Admiral Kaelith Morvannis stood rigid on the bridge of the HMES Invictus Arcanum, his hands clasped tightly behind his back as he stared out over the dark, rolling waves of the South Irnetia Sea. The hum of the ship's advanced magical systems and the soft murmurs of the bridge crew were the only sounds, a deceptive calm that belied the tension simmering beneath the surface. Outside, the skies were gray, the sun a pale disc hidden behind layers of thick clouds, casting a bleak, oppressive light over the scene.

On the tactical display before him, the screen was crowded with red dots—Chinese vessels, hundreds of them, bristling with weapons and arrayed in a dense formation that seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon. They were positioned in a blockade, a massive wall of steel and firepower that encircled his much smaller task force. The blue markers representing his ships—one of the most advanced naval fleets in existence—seemed almost pitiful in comparison. But Morvannis knew better than to underestimate the power he wielded. The Milishial Empire's technology was far beyond anything the Chinese could muster. If it came to a fight, he was confident that his ships would cut through them like a scythe through wheat.

But that was the problem: it wasn't coming to a fight. At least, not yet.

"Admiral," came the voice of Commander Laelia, his second-in-command, breaking through his dark thoughts. She was a tall, statuesque woman with the distinct elven features typical of the Milishial Empire's upper echelons—sharp ears, pale skin, and piercing blue eyes that seemed to see straight through you. She stood at attention beside him, her expression as unreadable as always. "The Chinese fast boats are moving in closer. They're launching flares and dispersing jet fuel into the water. It's… unconventional, but it's slowing our progress."

Morvannis turned his gaze to the forward viewport, where he could see the flashes of light in the distance—flares bursting into life like tiny supernovas against the backdrop of the gray sea. The fast boats were small, agile vessels, no more than a dozen meters in length, but they moved with a speed and precision that made them difficult to track, darting in and out of the larger ships' defensive perimeters like a swarm of angry hornets. The flares arced through the air, their bright red and orange trails leaving streaks of light that danced across the waves, creating a dazzling, disorienting spectacle.

Morvannis clenched his jaw, his hand tightening on the edge of the console. The fast boats were nothing more than a nuisance, a swarm of mosquitoes buzzing around his fleet. In any other situation, he would have ordered his 155mm guns to blast the pesky vessels out of the water. But the orders from the Imperial Senate were clear: do not fire unless fired upon. The logic behind the order was sound—avoid provoking a war that neither side truly wanted—but it left him and his fleet in a dangerously vulnerable position.

"Damn these orders," he muttered under his breath, slamming his fist against the table in frustration. The weight of the situation pressed heavily on him. He was leading some of the most advanced and powerful ships ever constructed, yet he was being forced to hold back, to allow these Chinese gnats to nip at his heels with impunity. They were the Milishial Empire, the greatest power on Novus Orbis, and here they were, being toyed with by a nation that should have been bowing before their might.

"Use the water cannons," Morvannis ordered, his voice sharp with irritation. "Drench those boats and keep them at a distance. But no live fire unless absolutely necessary." If they couldn't shoot, they could at least make things difficult for their tormentors.

"Understood, Admiral," Laelia responded, turning to relay the orders.

As the fleet's water cannons roared to life, spraying torrents of high-pressure water at the fast boats, Morvannis seethed inwardly. The Chinese were testing his patience, pushing the boundaries of their non-aggression agreement. They knew he couldn't fire first, and they were exploiting that fact to the fullest. It was a game of brinkmanship, one that he was being forced to play by rules he despised.

As he watched, one of the fast boats came dangerously close to the bow of an Adamant-Class battleship, its hull a towering wall of steel that dwarfed the tiny craft. The boat veered sharply to avoid collision, its wake carving a frothy white line through the dark water. The crew on the bridge of the battleship responded immediately, the ship's water cannons swiveling into position and unleashing a powerful torrent of high-pressure water at the intruder. The blast hit the fast boat with the force of a sledgehammer, sending it careening off course, but it quickly regained its balance, maneuvering away with almost contemptuous ease.

Morvannis watched as the fast boats struggled to regroup, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. This was not how a Rear Admiral of the Milishial Empire should be spending his time—playing cat and mouse with an opposing force. He was a warrior, a commander who had seen centuries of battle, and now he was reduced to using water cannons against speedboats. It was an insult to everything he had fought for.

Another fast boat darted in, this one trailing a thick, black cloud of jet fuel in its wake. The substance spread across the surface of the water like a stain, its pungent odor carried on the wind. The boat circled the fleet, moving with erratic, unpredictable motions, its crew clearly intent on causing as much chaos as possible. The fuel slick spread rapidly, covering a wide area around the Milishial ships, and Morvannis felt a surge of anger rise within him.

"Commander Laelia, have the water cannons focus on dispersing that fuel," he ordered, his tone clipped and precise. "I don't want any of it getting too close to our ships."

"Yes, Admiral," Laelia replied, moving swiftly to relay the command.

As the water cannons adjusted their aim, powerful jets of water lashed out at the spreading fuel slick, breaking it up and dispersing it into the sea. But the fast boats were relentless, darting in and out, laying down more flares and fuel, pushing the limits of the Milishial fleet's patience.

The scene on the water was one of chaotic brilliance. The boats, skimming across the surface, trailed lines of flaming liquid as their crews tossed flares into the air, the intense light temporarily blinding the ship's sensors. The flares hung in the sky like fiery stars, their bright, flickering glow casting long shadows across the water. The jet fuel, a dark and viscous substance, spread across the ocean's surface, igniting in intermittent bursts of orange flame whenever it came into contact with the flares. The acrid smoke billowed upwards, stinging the eyes and searing the lungs of anyone exposed. The whole scene was a spectacle of engineered chaos, designed to harass and disorient.

The flames from the jet fuel were particularly hazardous. When a flare ignited a patch of the dark liquid, it created a violent eruption of fire and smoke that leaped high into the air. These eruptions were accompanied by loud whooshing sounds, a sharp contrast to the otherwise muted night. Each burst sent waves of heat and light across the water, the resulting explosions temporarily illuminating the dark sea. The fires spread with a menacing speed, leaving a burning trail that would make navigation nearly impossible.

Despite the Chinese effort, the Invictus Arcanum and its accompanying ships plowed forward. The water cannons managed to push the boats away from critical areas, but the constant harassment was taking its toll. The crew was on edge, their nerves frayed by the ongoing assault. Every time a flare shot up, there was a tense moment of silence as everyone waited for the inevitable burst of fire. The smoke that billowed from the burning jet fuel seeped into the ship's ventilation systems, making the air inside the vessel thick and suffocating. The bridge, usually a place of calm command, was now a scene of frenetic activity and strained concentration.

Morvannis's frustration was palpable. He paced back and forth on the bridge, his mind racing through the strategic implications of this unrelenting harassment. He glanced at the tactical display, where the red dots representing the Chinese fast boats moved with a disturbing persistence. They were like fleas on a dog, and every maneuver, every flare, every splash of jet fuel was an attempt to drive the Milishial fleet into a corner. He could see the smoke and the burning patches of water even through the display's augmented reality feed, a visual testament to the Chinese fleet's relentless effort.

"Admiral," Laelia's voice cut through his thoughts, "we've received a transmission from the Chinese fleet. It's the Nanjing."

"Put it through."

A moment later, the voice of Admiral Li Pengcheng crackled over the bridge's speakers. "Rear Admiral Morvannis, this is Admiral Li. I trust your journey through our minefield was uneventful?"

Morvannis could hear the amusement in Li's voice, and it grated on him. "Quite. I must commend your engineers on their creativity. A less experienced fleet might have been deterred."

"Indeed," Li replied, his tone cool and polite. "But I'm sure you understand our position. The 7th Marine Brigade is…preoccupied with a matter of great importance. We simply need more time."

"And so, you send your boats to harass us, knowing we cannot respond in kind," Morvannis shot back, his frustration seeping into his words. "Is this how the great Chinese navy conducts itself? Like schoolyard bullies?"

There was a pause on the line before Li responded, his voice now serious. "Rear Admiral, I have no desire to see this escalate into something neither of us wants. But understand this: we are prepared to defend our interests, just as you are prepared to defend yours. Let's not allow a misstep here to spark something neither of us can control."

Morvannis inhaled deeply, his gaze drifting to the imposing figure of the Invictus Arcanum outside the bridge's viewing port. The Invictus Arcanum, his ship, was a symbol of Milishial power, but that power was being held in check by political orders and diplomatic maneuvering. He despised it, but he understood it.

"Very well, Admiral Li," he said, his voice measured. "We will continue our course. But understand this: if your boats come any closer, I will take that as a hostile act. You're pushing the limits of what's acceptable, Admiral. We are not to be trifled with."

"Nor are we," Li said calmly. "But let's not allow this situation to spiral out of control. We both have our orders, and neither of us wants to be the one who starts something we can't stop. Let's keep things civil."

"Civil," Morvannis repeated, almost spitting the word. He looked out at the vast ocean beyond the bridge, where his fleet and the Chinese blockade faced each other down. It was a powder keg, and the fuse was growing shorter by the minute. "Let's hope it stays that way."

"Indeed," Li replied, his tone conciliatory. "Good day, Admiral Morvannis."

As the transmission ended, Morvannis stood silently, his frustration simmering just below the surface. The Chinese fleet was still there, a wall of red that seemed to stretch endlessly across the screen. They were waiting, daring him to make the first move. This was not how battles were supposed to be fought. It was a mockery of the power they wielded, reducing his fleet to a glorified parade, forced to endure the taunts of an enemy they could not strike back against. But he knew his duty, and he would follow his orders to the letter—no matter how much it chafed against his instincts as a commander.

Morvannis took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm. This was a battle of wills, as much as it was a battle of ships and weapons. He had to stay strong, had to keep his focus. The lives of his men depended on it. He could only hope that the Chinese wouldn't push him too far. The last thing he wanted was to be the spark that ignited a war between two of the world's greatest powers. But in the back of his mind, a single, unyielding thought burned: if they pushed him too far, he would not hesitate to unleash the full might of the Milishial Empire upon them.

On Board the Carrier Nanjing

Admiral Li Pengcheng stood in the command center of the Nanjing, his steel-gray eyes locked onto the tactical display that dominated the room. The large screen flickered with the positions of hundreds of vessels, representing the imposing might of both the Chinese 1st Expeditionary Fleet and the smaller but no less formidable Milishial task force under Rear Admiral Kaelith Morvannis. The tension in the air was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. The room was a hive of activity, officers moving between consoles, their voices low but urgent as they relayed commands and monitored the unfolding situation.

"Admiral, incoming message from Lieutenant General Cheng Xiaogang of the 7th Marine Brigade," a communications officer reported, his voice breaking through the low murmur of activity on the bridge. The officer, a young lieutenant with a nervous edge to his tone, held a receiver out towards Li.

Li turned away from the tactical display, his face a mask of composure despite the simmering tension. "Put it through," he ordered, his voice steady.

The receiver crackled for a moment, filled with the static of an encrypted line before the voice of Lieutenant General Cheng Xiaogang came through, clear and brimming with restrained excitement. "Admiral Li, I'm pleased to report that we've successfully completed our mission. King Irtis VIII is in our custody."

A wave of relief washed over Li as he processed the words. The primary objective, the capture of King Irtis VIII, had been achieved. The operation, which had been fraught with tension and the ever-present threat of Milishial intervention, was now nearing its successful conclusion. It was a crucial victory, one that had been meticulously planned and executed under the constant threat of escalation with Milishial, the most powerful nation in Novus Orbis.

"Excellent work, General," Li replied, allowing a rare note of satisfaction to enter his voice. "Begin your withdrawal. We'll cover your retreat."

"Understood, Admiral. We'll be on our way shortly," Cheng responded before the line went silent.

Li turned to his senior officers, his expression hardening into one of resolute determination. "The mission is complete. Signal the fleet to begin a tactical withdrawal. The blockade is no longer necessary."

"Aye, Admiral," Captain Tianlong responded crisply, turning to relay the orders. He was a man of few words, his loyalty and efficiency well-known among the crew. His fingers danced across the console as he issued the commands that would set the fleet into motion.

The tension in the room began to ease slightly as the Chinese ships, marked in red on the tactical display, started to pull back from their blockade positions. The retreat was orderly, each vessel moving with the precision and discipline that had come to define the Chinese Navy. The Nanjing, the flagship of the fleet, remained at the center of the formation, her powerful engines already humming with the energy needed to propel her away from the contested waters.

But even as the fleet began its withdrawal, the sense of danger remained. The Milishial task force was still out there, their ships continuing to advance despite the Chinese retreat. Li knew that the situation could still turn deadly in an instant. A single misstep, a single miscommunication, and the fragile peace that had been maintained could shatter like glass.

"Open a channel to Rear Admiral Morvannis," Li ordered, his voice cutting through the low hum of the bridge.

A moment later, the voice of Rear Admiral Kaelith Morvannis came through, cold and guarded. "Admiral Li."

"Rear Admiral Morvannis," Li began, his tone almost cordial despite the undercurrent of tension that laced his words. "I'm calling to inform you that our mission is complete. We've captured King Irtis VIII, and we are now withdrawing our forces. You're too late to stop us. I suggest you return home."

There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line. Li could imagine the frustration etched across Morvannis's face, the knowledge that he had been outmaneuvered gnawing at him. The Milishial fleet, for all its technological superiority, had been delayed just long enough to miss their chance to intervene, and now they were being told to turn back.

"Very well, Admiral Li," Morvannis finally replied, his voice cold as ice. "But don't think this is over. Milishial does not forget."

"Neither does China," Li responded, his voice firm, unyielding. "Safe travels, Rear Admiral."

As the connection ended, Li allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. The operation had been a success, and the Chinese Navy had managed to outmaneuver their most formidable opponent without a single shot being fired. It was a victory, albeit a fragile one. The next moves would be played out on the diplomatic stage, where politicians and diplomats would argue and negotiate, but for today, on the cold waters of the South Irnetia Sea, the Chinese Navy had done its part.

The Milishial fleet, as powerful and advanced as it was, had been forced to play by the rules of a game they did not control. And in this game of brinkmanship, that was victory enough. But Li knew, deep in his bones, that this was just the beginning. The real storm was yet to come.

Valarionth-Esparith Myridan, Nigrat Union, Mu Continent.

The retreat of the Milishial fleet from the standoff with the Chinese forces was a momentary reprieve in the tense theater of war. Onboard the Nanjing aircraft carrier, the atmosphere shifted from the precipice of conflict to a cautious relief that filled the air. Officers and crew exchanged wary glances, their shared unease a reflection of the narrow escape from what could have been an immediate war. The balance of power, it seemed, had been preserved for now, and the looming threat of war was momentarily avoided. Yet, beneath the surface of this uneasy calm, a far more sinister force watched with malevolent interest, ready to exploit any fracture in the delicate balance.

Fourteen thousand kilometers away, in the ancient and grand city of Valarionth-Esparith Myridan, the shadow of a darker scheme was being cast. In the depths of a forgotten chamber, Bramptovich stood, his presence both commanding and ominous. The chamber, a relic from an age long past, was steeped in mystery. Its walls were adorned with runes and arcane symbols, their faint, pulsing light hinting at the dormant power they held. Bramptovich's wings, starkly divided between black and white, were a testament to his lineage and the duality of his nature—a being born of both light and darkness.

His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, schemes, and dark ambitions. The retreat of the Milishial fleet had been unexpected—a temporary setback in what was supposed to be a much grander design. A flash of frustration crossed his otherwise calm demeanor. "So close to igniting the flames of chaos," he murmured to himself, his voice a low growl of displeasure. "And yet, they step back. Cowards."

His eyes, glowing with an eerie, otherworldly light, were fixed on the arcane projections before him. The ghostly images detailed the movements of the fleets, the shifting dynamics of power in the world, and the precarious balance that held it all together. This momentary respite, Bramptovich knew, could undermine the delicate equilibrium he had worked so meticulously to manipulate. But in his vast experience, he had learned that every setback could be turned into an opportunity.

"The Annonrial Empire is no stranger to setbacks," he thought, his expression darkening as memories of ancient battles and long-forgotten wars filled his mind. The empire, once a dominant force under the tyrannical Ravernal Empire, had fallen into obscurity, a shadow of its former self. But its descendants, the Annonrial, still carried the bitterness of that lost glory. The fall of the Ravernal Empire had been a crushing blow, but it was not the end. "Our time will come again," Bramptovich vowed silently, his eyes narrowing with determination. "We will reclaim what was taken from us, and more."

The current ruler of the Annonrial Empire, Emperor Zaratosthra The Savior, had promised a return to power, a resurgence of their people's former might. Bramptovich's allegiance to the emperor was unwavering, but he was not blind to the challenges they faced. Zaratosthra's vision was grand, but Bramptovich knew that promises alone were not enough to bring about their resurgence. "Zaratosthra's vision is bold," he mused, "but it requires more than words. It requires action—decisive, calculated, ruthless action."

China's sudden emergence as a global power presented both a threat and an opportunity. Bramptovich understood that the power dynamics of the world were shifting rapidly, and the brewing conflict between China and Milishial could be the key to advancing his plans. "China's rise complicates matters," he conceded, "but it also creates openings—opportunities to tip the scales in our favor."

The thought of manipulating these powerful nations, of turning their conflict to his advantage, sent a thrill through him. The idea was both thrilling and tantalizing—a challenge worthy of his considerable talents. As he approached the arcane console in the center of the chamber, Bramptovich's mind was already calculating his next move. The ancient device, its surface etched with runes of power, responded to his touch, amplifying his dark intentions. "If I can deepen the conflict between China and Milishial," he thought, his lips curling into a predatory smile, "it will play perfectly into our hands. Their mutual animosity will weaken them both, making our ascent all the more assured."

As he began to channel his dark energies through the console, the room filled with a low, resonant hum. The air itself seemed to vibrate with power, the ancient carvings on the walls pulsing in response. Bramptovich's eyes narrowed with focus as he felt the surge of magical energy bend to his will. "The ripple effect will be subtle," he mused, "but potent. Every wave of influence will serve to deepen their conflict and spread chaos."

A name formed in his mind, a name that brought a twisted smile to his lips. "Daisy," he whispered, his voice laced with a dark, twisted affection. "My beautiful, bloodthirsty Daisy. It's time to set the wheels in motion."

Reaching out with his mind, Bramptovich extended his consciousness across the vast distance between him and his agent. His thoughts flowed like tendrils of smoke, winding their way into her mind. In an instant, he was there, inside her thoughts, feeling her desires, her insatiable hunger for chaos and destruction. She was ready—she had been ready for a long time.

"Daisy," Bramptovich's voice echoed in her mind, cold and commanding. "The time has come. You know what to do."

There was a pause, and then a response—a dark, eager anticipation tinged her thoughts. "Yes, master," Daisy replied, her voice a silken whisper that belied the monstrous nature within her. "I have been waiting for this moment."

Bramptovich could feel her excitement, her bloodlust, as she prepared to carry out his orders. He had chosen her for this task because he knew she would relish it—she would savor every moment of the destruction she was about to unleash.

"Do not hold back," Bramptovich instructed, his voice tinged with a dark amusement. "Let them see the true face of the enemy they have awakened."

With that, he severed the connection, leaving Daisy to her work. Bramptovich leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. He had set the stage, and now all that remained was to watch as the chaos unfolded.

"Let them fight," he murmured to himself, his voice filled with dark glee. "Let them tear each other apart. And when they are both weakened, when they are both bleeding and broken, we will rise from the shadows and take what is rightfully ours."

In the dim light of the chamber, Bramptovich's wings shimmered with an eerie glow—one half black as night, the other half white as bone. The ancient carvings on the walls seemed to shift and writhe, as if reacting to the dark energy that filled the room. The city of Valarionth-Esparith Myridan, a relic of a time when demons and dark powers ruled the world, seemed to come alive with a malevolent force.

Bramptovich knew that the Holy Milishial Empire would not fall easily, nor would China. They were powerful, determined, and resourceful. But they were also predictable, bound by their codes of honor, their strategies, their rigid beliefs in what was right and just. That predictability would be their undoing.

The Annonrial Empire, on the other hand, thrived on chaos, on deception, on the willingness to do whatever it took to achieve victory. They had waited for ten thousand years, hidden in the shadows, while the world believed them to be nothing more than a legend. But now, their time had come.

As Bramptovich's thoughts turned to the future, to the bloodshed and destruction that would soon sweep across Novus Orbis, his smile grew wider, more malevolent. The return of the ancestors was imminent, and with them, the Ravernal Empire would rise again.

"Let the world burn," Bramptovich whispered, his voice filled with a sadistic joy. "Let them all burn."

117th Stealth Strike Fighter Squadron of Carrier Taiwan

Inside the cockpit of the J-35 5th-generation stealth fighter, Lieutenant Lan Yunlong's hands gripped the controls with a calm confidence born from years of rigorous training. The glow from the instrument panel cast a cold light on his face, illuminating eyes that should have been filled with focus and determination. But those eyes were empty, hollow windows into a soul that no longer existed. The real Lan Yunlong was gone, his body and mind consumed by a being of pure malice—a demon that had taken everything from him, leaving only a shell behind.

In its true form, the demon had no need for a name, no identity to anchor it to a singular existence. It had lived countless lives, worn countless faces, and taken countless names, all for the sake of its insatiable hunger. Now, it wore the name "Daisy," a cruel joke in itself, a name that conjured images of innocence and fragility, the very opposite of what it truly was. The demon found a dark pleasure in the irony, relishing the contrast between the softness of the name and the cold, unrelenting malice that drove its every action.

Daisy's gaze swept over the console in front of her, the displays showing the positions of the Milishial fleet with perfect clarity. Where another pilot might have seen enemies, Daisy saw prey—helpless, unsuspecting creatures waiting to be devoured. The thought of the carnage to come sent a shiver of anticipation through her borrowed body, the thrill of impending bloodshed igniting a fire deep within her.

The memory of Lan Yunlong's final moments surfaced in Daisy's mind, and she savored the taste of his fear, his desperation. He had been strong, yes, but in the end, all humans were weak, their lives so easily extinguished, their bodies so easily broken. His resistance had been brief, but it had made his death all the more satisfying. The memory of his blood, warm and metallic on her tongue, was still vivid in her mind. But even more delicious was the deception she now wore—the guise of a trusted leader among men, a man who had flown with these humans through countless missions. None of them suspected that their comrade had been replaced by a demon, a creature of pure malice and unrestrained bloodlust.

A telepathic voice echoed in her mind, ancient and powerful, a command that was impossible to resist. Strike the fleet. Now. Make them bleed.

It was Bramptovich, the shadowy Winged Person who had orchestrated Daisy's current mission. His telepathic reach was vast, his influence undeniable. Daisy's lips twisted into a cruel smile as she reached for the weapons control. The anticipation thrummed through her, hot and electric. This was her moment, the culmination of all her dark desires

Her fingers danced over the weapons control, each movement precise and practiced, a testament to the skills she had stolen from the man she had consumed. The J-35's systems hummed to life, the missile bays opening to reveal their deadly payload: eight YJ-83KZ subsonic anti-ship missiles, each one a harbinger of death, loaded with the potential to turn steel and magic alike into twisted wreckage.

Daisy's eyes gleamed with a predatory hunger as she activated the targeting systems. On the display, the image of the HMES Invictus Arcanum appeared, the flagship of the Milishial fleet, a symbol of their power and technological superiority. To destroy it would be to strike at the very heart of the Milishial Empire, to send a message that would reverberate across the seas. And Daisy was more than willing to be the instrument of that message.

The missiles were primed and ready. Eight YJ-83KZ subsonic anti-ship weapons, each a sleek, deadly instrument of destruction. As she armed them, Daisy's mind drifted to the past, to the ancient origins of her kind.

Demons were not always the humanoid creatures they were now. Long ago, they were monsters of the night, terrifying beasts that lurked in the shadows. They could mimic the desperate cries of their prey, luring them into their clutches with cruel deception. Over countless generations, they evolved, becoming more insidious, more deadly. They learned to mimic not just sounds, but appearances and behaviors, allowing them to blend seamlessly into the societies of their prey. This evolution led them to become demons, masters of deception and brutality.

The world had shifted dramatically with the rise of the Ravernal Empire, a civilization of unmatched power and ambition. The Ravernals had enslaved entire species, including the demons, bending them to their will. Under the iron fist of the Ravernal rulers, demons became ruthless soldiers, waging war against other sapient races across countless battlefields. For thousands of years, they fought alongside their Light-winged masters, spreading terror and death in the name of their Demon Emperor.

But the Ravernal Empire was not eternal. When the empire mysteriously vanished, its vast holdings and enslaved armies were left leaderless. The demons, once so feared, found themselves on the losing side of history. Without the Ravernals to command them, they were hunted down and driven to the brink of extinction, especially in the northern hemisphere where the forces of light held sway. The demons retreated to the farthest, darkest corners of the world, where they bided their time, nursing their hatred and honing their powers.

In the cursed lands of the Southern Continents, known as Branchel and Ribocha, the demons found refuge. These continents, shunned and feared by most of the world, became the breeding grounds for a terrifying transformation. For reasons still unknown, the demons underwent a hyper-evolution, becoming more powerful than ever before. These new forms were called Demon Kings, beings of immense strength and malevolence, capable of challenging even the most advanced civilizations.

The rise of the Demon Kings alarmed the Milishial Empire, the most powerful nation of the time. The Milishials, who had inherited much of the Ravernal Empire's knowledge and technology, recognized the threat posed by these newly evolved demons. They ordered a blockade of the Southern World, effectively sealing off Branchel and Ribocha from the rest of the globe. Direct military action was deemed too dangerous; the demons were simply too powerful, and the Southern Continents were a treacherous land, filled with horrors that even the Milishial Empire hesitated to confront.

But where others saw danger, the Annonrial Empire saw opportunity. The Annonrial Empire, with its own dark ambitions, made contact with the demons, promising them a world where they could hunt freely, where their bloodlust could be sated without restraint. This promise had driven Daisy to embrace her dark role with zeal. Now, as she prepared to unleash the missiles, she felt a thrill of anticipation. The chaos she would create would serve as a testament to her power and the promises made by her enigmatic master.

"Time to play," she whispered to herself, her voice a low purr that would have sent chills down the spine of anyone who heard it.

With a swift, decisive motion, Daisy initiated the launch sequence. The cockpit was filled with a series of beeps and whirs as the missiles were ejected from their mounts. Daisy's eyes followed the missiles' trajectory on her display, her heart racing with dark excitement. Each missile shot out in a burst of fiery exhaust, cutting through the sky with deadly precision.

The J-35 trembled slightly as the missiles departed, the aircraft jolting with the force of their release. Daisy's gaze remained fixed on the distant target—the HMES Invictus Arcanum, a formidable Milishial battleship. The ship, with its advanced magical defenses, seemed a fitting target for her wrath. The missiles were on a collision course, their destructive payloads poised to wreak havoc.

As she watched the missiles streak across the sky, Daisy's thoughts turned to the chaos that would soon unfold. The Invictus Arcanum was a symbol of Milishial might, and the destruction of such a vessel would send shockwaves through the fleet. The thought of the ship's hull buckling under the impact, of its crew being engulfed in flames and shrapnel, filled her with a twisted satisfaction.

Her squadron mates, still unaware of the true nature of their leader, were horrified. "Lan! What the hell are you doing?" one of them shouted over the radio, his voice a mix of confusion and panic. Lieutenant Zhang Hei, a seasoned pilot who had fought alongside Lan Yunlong in battle after battle, couldn't believe what he was seeing. They had been given strict orders not to engage unless fired upon, and yet here was their commander, launching a full-scale attack on the Milishial flagship.

"Lieutenant Yunlong, what's the order?!" Zhang's voice cracked with alarm, his heart pounding as he struggled to understand what was happening. The gravity of the situation was sinking in fast, but nothing made sense. The man he knew as a disciplined, strategic leader was now acting with reckless abandon, throwing them all into a potentially catastrophic situation.

Daisy let out a dark, delighted laugh, a sound that sent chills down the spines of those who heard it. "What I was born to do," she replied, her voice dripping with venom. The sheer panic and confusion she could sense from her comrades was intoxicating, a heady rush that only heightened her anticipation. She could almost taste their fear, and it was delicious. The thought of what would happen next—of the destruction she had just unleashed—filled her with a twisted, primal joy.

"Lan, stop! This is madness!" another voice cut through the radio, this time more desperate, more pleading. It was Lieutenant Wu Mei, one of the younger pilots in the squadron, her voice tinged with a mixture of fear and disbelief. "You're going to get us all killed!"

Daisy's grin widened, her eyes narrowing with malicious glee. "Better pray to your gods, then," she said, her tone laced with mockery. "You're going to need all the help you can get."

The missiles were closing in on their target, the distance between them and the Invictus Arcanum shrinking with every passing second. Daisy's thoughts were a whirlwind of dark triumph and twisted satisfaction. The chaos, the destruction, and the suffering she had orchestrated were all part of her grand design. The world would soon know the true meaning of terror, and Daisy would continue her dark work, hidden beneath the guise of humanity but driven by an insatiable thirst for blood and destruction.

But as the missiles drew closer to their mark, something unexpected happened. A shimmering, translucent barrier flickered into existence around the Invictus Arcanum, a dome of energy that crackled with arcane power. The missiles slammed into the barrier, their warheads detonating on impact, but instead of tearing through the ship's hull, the explosions dissipated harmlessly against the magical shield.

Daisy's eyes narrowed in frustration as she watched the barrier absorb the full force of the attack. The Invictus Arcanum emerged unscathed from the assault, its defenses holding firm against the onslaught. The demon could feel her blood boiling with anger, her plans for carnage thwarted by the ship's defenses. But even as the reality of her failure set in, Daisy's mind was already racing with new, more devious ideas.

"That's one hell of a shield," she muttered to herself, her lips curling into a snarl. But the frustration was quickly replaced by determination. The game wasn't over, not by a long shot. The Invictus Arcanum might have survived this attack, but Daisy was far from done. The skies above the South Irnetia Sea would soon be filled with the sound of battle, and Daisy was ready to make her mark, one way or another.