"I didn't know those idiots could operate modern weapons of war," Bayonetta muttered as she stood at the corner of Fifth Avenue, clad in a pristine white gown, watching with her own eyes the forms that ordinary people could not see. Birdlike beings with wings stood atop fighter jets, scanning for targets. One of the pilots, seated in the cockpit, suddenly realized he had completely lost control of the aircraft. It was now plummeting toward Manhattan, skimming low over the rooftops like a skipping stone.
The pilot hurriedly issued warnings and distress calls to his comrades.
People on the ground began to notice as well—after all, no one could ignore the deafening roar of a fighter jet passing just overhead, especially when its nose was pointed straight at a building. The noise grew unbearable. The plane's nose dipped lower and lower, and the force of the jet's airflow swept across the street like a hurricane, scattering every Christmas decoration. The engine's roar shattered fragile windowpanes, and a dazzling "snowfall" of glass cascaded down Fifth Avenue.
Bayonetta lifted her chin, revealing the beautiful face partially hidden beneath her wide-brimmed hat.
Around her slender neck was a pure white choker embroidered with a white rose, and her graceful shoulders gleamed under the gray fur trim of her high-slit white rose gown. She drew two brand-new pistols and softly hummed a Christmas tune, standing poised like a knight waiting for the charge.
The angels swung their weapons and unhesitatingly drove the fighter jet faster toward its target.
As the plane scraped past a building, the pilot activated the ejection seat. The jet was a lost cause, and this tragedy would mark a dark chapter in American history—perhaps even comparable to 9/11. As the pilot shot out of the cockpit, flames trailing behind, he wondered what charges he might face and whether he'd live to see life beyond prison.
Time suddenly halted. The crashing plane, the fluttering holiday flyers—all seemed frozen midair. The roar of the engine stretched into a monotone hum; the store music became a garbled murmur; the panic on the faces of bystanders and the pilot was frozen in detail.
The witches acted in perfect sync. Jeanne revved her motorcycle and launched herself onto the plane. With a flick of the bike's rear end, she slammed into the pilot and his flaming ejector seat, flinging them away. With Jeanne's task complete, Bayonetta casually strolled over and delivered a graceful, high-heeled kick to the jet's nose. It was like an explosion. Before anyone understood what had happened, the fighter—destined to crash—suddenly shot straight up into the sky, defying every known principle of jet propulsion. Its wings flipped violently, generating a whirlwind strong enough to blow Bayonetta's hat off.
It was hard to imagine such terrifying power could come from a leg wrapped in stockings.
Bayonetta raised a gloved hand and elegantly caught the vintage wide-brimmed hat midair.
"What did the boy say?" Jeanne asked.
"He said we could do whatever we wanted," Bayonetta replied with a smile. She placed the hat back on her head—its rose bow perfectly aligned—and added something completely out of character for the refined woman she usually pretended to be. "I've been waiting for this day for a long time."
"Is he coming?"
"He's still looking for his armor. Solomon thinks these angels didn't appear randomly—there's a plot behind it." Jeanne scoffed, muttering words like "sissy" and "weakling" in response. Bayonetta caught sight of five Sisterhood soldiers descending from a rooftop. Dressed in black powered armor and sporting flaming metal wings, they carried longswords and grenade rifles. Their descent traced elegant arcs of flame as they landed nearby. They could see the vague outlines of the invisible entities, but the angels' feathers, halos, and armor remained indistinct.
"But he still cares about us, doesn't he?" Bayonetta said, smiling with narrowed eyes. "Girls, stay close. I know he cherishes your lives, so keep clear of the thick of it."
"We will not retreat!" To the Sisterhood, the witch's words were an insult. The lead android replied in a solemn tone, "Even if we die here, we will not tarnish the honor of the Sovereign."
Jeanne huffed disapprovingly. "Then stay close and show us what those swords can actually do."
"Sisters, we shall destroy all enemies of our Sovereign—including these wretched spirits! With blade and bomb, faith and flame!" the lead android shouted. She activated her sword and wings and, filled with fervor, charged the bird-headed creatures. To everyone's surprise, her electrified sword actually cut into one of the false angels. Colorless blood splattered outward. Then she finished the creature with two clean grenade shots. Her armor showed only a faint scratch—no blood. It should have been impossible, yet it happened.
"Reveal yourselves, abominations!" With Catherine's roar, the previously shadow-like entities suddenly gained form—like chunks of glass flowing through water. Though their details remained unclear, they were now visible enough for the Sisterhood to strike.
"Lady Catherine!"
"Shut up—swing your sword!" Catherine launched herself toward the next enemy, her steel wings flaring like true feathers. "To die in battle is glory!"
Back in the Sanctum, a mystic walked in, cloaked in vestments woven from sacred relic cloth, followed by Wanda Maximoff. As they opened the doors, they saw that every steward inside was rushing about, and Master Daniel had already activated the Eye of Agamotto's crystal sphere, desperate to determine the scale of this extradimensional invasion.
"How bad is it?" Solomon asked.
Daniel pointed at the sphere. "See for yourself."
The Eye of Agamotto faithfully displayed the extent of the incident. Like an ugly scar, New York was only on the edge of it. "We don't know why this is happening—there was no warning," Daniel said gravely. "Agents are already retrieving shards of the incident from the Cauldron of the Cosmos, and the Ancient One has received all the data. New York isn't the epicenter—only one explanation makes sense for this anomaly."
"They're being directed," Solomon said. "Otherwise, these wretched creatures should've scattered long ago and perished in the Astral War." He'd figured that much out the moment he saw them. "Whatever is pulling them back together, the witches are clearly a key element."
"Yes," the old man replied, without his usual flippant demeanor. "The Eye of the World. Remember? The power of a demigod—residue from the first Godslayer movement."
"Has the Lady of Calamity said anything?" Solomon asked, referring to the madwoman living at the Himalayan headquarters. Her origin was unknown, but her prophetic and perceptive abilities were extraordinary. Daniel shook his head, saying she'd done nothing but eat and paint on the walls, not even wearing shoes. "What about the paintings? I refuse to believe anyone would ignore the work of a witch with supernatural insight. There has to be symbolism."
"At first, people thought so," Daniel said, grinning. "But I doubt SpongeBob and Patrick Star carry any hidden meaning."
"Don't overthink it—just turn off the TV and she can't paint anymore!"
(End of Chapter)
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