"Everyone, brace yourselves!" a sharp, commanding voice barked through the medical tent.
Inside the crowded shelter, Graves and his fellow medics scrambled to secure their gear. To several of the fresh, uninitiated recruits, being ordered to "brace up" felt incredibly bizarre—after all, they were non-combatants, far removed from the actual firing line. Yet, they fell in line anyway, checking their trauma kits and holding onto the structural support poles of the tent as a low, ominous vibration began to hum through the earth.
High above in the ash-choked sky, anyone who cared to look upward would witness a massive, sweeping formation of dark metallic silhouettes. These were the elite fighter jets and heavy bombers Colonel Greyman had scrambled. Fifty sleek, agile fighter jets maintained a tight, defensive honeycomb formation, completely surrounding five gargantuan, heavy-payload bombers as they soared directly toward the dense swarm of devils.
"This is absolutely revolting," one of the jet pilots muttered over the encrypted squadron comms, peering down through his targeting visor at the writhing, black sea of monsters blanketing the ground below.
"You can say that again," another pilot crackled back, a hint of dark excitement bleeding into his voice. "But we're about to give these bastards a very loud wake-up call." It wasn't every day the Sector C Air Force was authorized to unleash its full, unrestricted payload. For these elite pilots, today felt like a twisted blessing.
Down in the primary command tent, Colonel Greyman stood rigid, surrounded by his anxious staff officers.
Suddenly, a burst of static cut through the command console. "Co—nel G_e—an... do you... —opy? Colonel Greyman, do you copy?"
The channel quickly stabilized, the signal clearing. Greyman gripped the heavy transmitter tightly in his hand. "Yes, affirmative. I copy you loud and clear, Flight Lead. I assume you have eyes on the target by now? They aren't exactly hiding."
A heartbeat of silence passed over the radio before the commander of the aviation wing responded. "Affirmative, Colonel. We acquired visual on the horde from several dozen kilometers out. The cluster is dense. As the commanding officer of this operation, do I have official authorization to drop the payload?"
Greyman's knuckles turned white as he glanced around the table. His subordinates offered solemn, desperate nods of approval.
"Authorization is fully granted, Flight Lead," Greyman declared firmly. "I confirm that no ground personnel are within the danger-close radius of the strike zone. You are cleared to release ordnance at your discretion. We will sweep in and clean up the remnants from there."
"Understood, Colonel. You've just authorized one of the largest aerial bombardments Sector C has seen in a while. We're eager to deliver. Good luck down there." The comms line clicked shut, returning the tent to a tense, suffocating silence. Greyman let out a slow, heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly.
Up in the stratosphere, the flight commander's radar suddenly began to chime frantically. A cluster of rapid red blips materialized on his tactical heads-up display.
"We've got multiple inbound targets! Approximately twenty kilometers out and closing fast!" a pilot shouted over the comms.
By the time the distance shrank to fifteen kilometers, the fighter pilots finally got a clear visual through their long-range optical cameras. A cold sweat washed down the flight commander's spine. They weren't debris, and they weren't mechanical—they were flying devils.
These aerial monsters possessed terrifying aerodynamic capabilities. Certain high-tier flying devils could push their physical bodies to a staggering Mach 12, easily outrunning the NHF's state-of-the-art fighter jets, which capped out at Mach 10. Worse yet, their sensory organs and eyesights were fully on par with the computerized targeting helmets of the human pilots.
The flight commander quickly pulled up the biometrics of the incoming entities, and a bitter taste filled his mouth.
There were fourteen of them. Every single one was a B-class threat, identified in the military database as a "Winged Bolt."
These specific devils possessed long, razor-sharp, spear-like beaks that allowed them to pierce the sound barrier with ease. Their wings were lined with metallic, blade-like feathers that they could violently launch from their bodies like high-velocity kinetic projectiles. Even though the modern alloys used to construct the NHF's fighter jets were fifteen times sturdier and more durable than any aircraft from the old world, a barrage of those metallic feathers at Mach speeds could easily shred a jet's frame to pieces. An average human pilot stood almost no chance in a direct, one-on-one dogfight with a Winged Bolt.
"Damn it..." the flight commander growled. He patched back into the ground command. "Colonel Greyman, we have a major complication. Fourteen B-class Winged Bolts have intercepted our approach vector."
Back in the command tent, Greyman's face instantly went pale. The news confirmed his worst, most terrifying suspicion: the devil horde was indeed being orchestrated by an A-class mastermind. A feral, unorganized horde would never have the strategic foresight to deploy a dedicated B-class aerial interception unit to protect their ground forces. Only an A-class or S-class devil possessed the shee authority to command B-class monsters in such a calculated manner.
"May the Church guide them..." Greyman whispered, his voice hollow as the morale in the command room plummeted.
Up in the sky, the flight commander knew he had only seconds to act. If those fourteen Winged Bolts breached the defensive perimeter and reached the vulnerable, bulky bombers, the entire mission would be a catastrophic failure.
"Listen up, squadron!" the flight commander bellowed into his headset. "I need twenty-eight fighters to peel off immediately and engage those aerial devils! Two fighters per Winged Bolt. Maintain maximum distance at all costs! Your sole objective is to draw them away from the heavy bombers. Keep them occupied for as long as it takes for us to drop the payload. If you see a clean opening, take the kill—but prioritize your own survival." A pilot was worth far more than a fighter jet the amount of resources poured on an individual fighter pilot were enough coupled with the time spent on training and time was one thing humanity lacked. The remaining fighters, stay on me and escort the bombers to the drop zone!"
With practiced, military precision, the twenty-eight fighter jets peeled away from the main cluster, thrusters roaring as they surged forward to intercept the incoming swarm.
The flight commander turned his head, looking at the pilots "Can we push this damn thing any faster?!"