Chapter 10
Then came the violent rainstorms—endless torrents of water crashing down, thunder roared across the heavens, and flashes of electric-blue lightning split the skies. The waves clashed with unrelenting fury, colliding into each other while orange-tinted spray burst upward into the air. The ocean stretched on endlessly, a dark abyss where no islands seemed to exist. From time to time, merciless bolts of lightning tore through the horizon, saturating the atmosphere with a suffocating sense of dread.
At the very heart of this dark ocean, in a place untouched by human presence, faint sparks of white electricity began to flicker. More and more appeared, weaving through the blackened waters as the pressure mounted. Space itself seemed to twist, collapsing inward, building into a monstrous force. The distortion grew denser, until white light bled across the surface as though reality itself were about to shatter.
And then—it happened. A colossal detonation erupted, hurling waves and streams of water violently outward. Space folded back upon itself, layers of reality stitching together again. On the other side, the world was completely different: a calm blue sky, emerald seas, and the familiar volcanic ridges of Hawaii. Pearl Harbor—one of the most strategically vital naval bases in the world—stood resplendent amid the tranquil ocean.
Within those clear waters, however, hundreds of warships gathered in grim formation, their steel hulls aligned like soldiers ready to march into the abyss. Towering destroyers of the Arleigh Burke-class and Atago-class gleamed with modern lethality, while older but no less formidable Type 23 frigates prowled with quiet menace. Amphibious assault carriers of the Mistral-class, pride of the French Navy, loomed with their massive silhouettes. At the heart of the fleet sailed the flagship, the SS CALIFORNIA, a Nimitz-class supercarrier painted in stark black and emblazoned with the insignia of GAM [Global Anomaly Monitoring]. On its deck, rows of F-16s and F-15s rested under the storming skies, while beneath the waves, silent predators of the Virginia-class submarines lurked unseen.
This was the full might of GAM's Pacific Fleet, departing from its harbor and plunging forward into the crimson waters of the Otherworld. As the rain battered the hulls, metal groaned under the assault of twenty- to thirty-meter waves. Every missile on board was powerful enough to erase entire fleets, yet even these ships trembled beneath the chaos of the hostile sea.
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Inside the officers' quarters of the SS CALIFORNIA, dim yellow lamps swayed violently with the motion of the ship. Rows of green bunk beds lined the room, and on one of them lay a small figure curled beneath a white blanket, fast asleep. When a massive wave struck, the bunks rattled, jarring her awake.
She rose slowly. A girl—her long golden hair fading into silvery white at the tips, eyes as blue as the open sky, skin pale and delicate as porcelain. She looked no older than fifteen. Wearing nothing but white undergarments, her petite frame betrayed an unsettling vulnerability. Yet as she stood, she calmly brushed back her disheveled hair, opened the locker, and dressed herself: first a white shirt, then a black tie, then the dark jacket of a pilot's uniform. She slid into fitted trousers, pulled on heavy boots, and at last, she looked every bit the officer of the United States Air Force.
Walking the corridors with quiet steps, she emerged onto the flight deck. Around her, crews labored furiously, inspecting every engine, exhaust, and component with precision. Crates of missiles were dragged toward the waiting aircraft, ready to be mounted at a moment's notice. The storm pressed down upon the deck, rain hammering the steel, yet the preparations never ceased.
Among the crew was a Black mechanic hauling a container of ammunition toward an F-16. Then—suddenly—his head snapped backward, pierced by a single bullet. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc; fragments of bone and brain scattered across the deck. His eyes froze wide in shock as his body collapsed lifelessly.
The girl—Eliza—slid her M9 pistol back into its holster, her voice dripping with venom and contempt:
Eliza:
> "Get lost… and next time, don't let another Black soldier stand in front of me. Filthy animals… disgusting vermin."
She kicked the corpse aside without hesitation, striding forward through the storm as if nothing had happened. Her hair darkened with rain, but the crew around her remained silent. She was an officer—no one dared to speak against her cruelty.
Reaching her aircraft, she laid her hand gently upon the sleek, jet-black fuselage. The cold steel felt familiar beneath her fingertips, every rivet embedded with memory. White trim lined the frame, and the name painted along its side read: Excalibur. Against the backdrop of the Otherworld's blackened skies, the fighter jet radiated both beauty and lethal allure.
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Meanwhile, on the other side of the conflict, the forces of EASRS advanced. Their heavy vehicles tore across rocky terrain, crushing earth beneath their wheels. Mobile radar units continuously swept the storm-choked skies, their monitors filling with countless red blips along the coastline.
Inside the command vehicle, Alice reclined lazily on her chair, her tail curled heavily across her lap as if weighing her down. Streams of reports flashed across her tablet—data on convoys, troop positions, enemy sightings. Without much interest, she pinched her fingers across the screen, circling the clusters of red markers. A prompt appeared:
> Attack
Yes / No
With a flick of her finger, she tapped Yes.
Immediately, the launchers outside roared. Hundreds of sleek drones shot into the storm, wings unfolding as they sliced through the black rain. Their white frames glistened, soaked as they pierced into the thunderclouds, climbing higher and higher until at last the enemy fleet came into view.
Cameras locked onto targets: missile batteries, aircraft, gun emplacements. With precision, the drones folded their wings and plummeted like hawks descending upon prey.
The fleet's automated guns opened fire, streams of golden tracer rounds streaking the sky. But the drones moved too fast. Explosions thundered as warships erupted in fireballs, missiles detonated mid-rack, cannons crumbled into twisted steel. On the SS CALIFORNIA, a chain of detonations lit the deck as aircraft were torn apart.
Eliza staggered back, stunned by the sudden destruction, yet she gritted her teeth, drew her pistol once more, and fired hopelessly into the storm.
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[To be continued]