Once the Saintess and the Demon King together depressed that momentous activation switch, the assembled crowd began filtering back to their respective duty stations to complete the final layers of readiness. Their time remaining within this vast excavation pit was rapidly trickling away.
A few of the veterans felt a distinct pang of reluctance as they prepared to pull up stakes. The exhausting labor of unearthing this titanic landship had consumed several long years of their lives, and many within the ranks had stood watch over the site for that entire stretch. Living in this relative isolation for so long, they had grown deeply attached to the familiar patterns of the camp. Compared to the perpetual, blood-soaked chaos of Kazdel, the tranquil monotony they had carved out here was closer to the life they truly desired.
Jeanne, however, remained entirely oblivious to these bittersweet internal reflections. Her focus was entirely locked onto the awakening giant itself. She quietly observed the crew members bustling through the primary engineering decks, frantically adjusting dials and matching levers as they familiarized themselves with the ancient array layouts, ensuring the landship was prepared to march at a moment's notice.
It was glaringly obvious that every soul marching under Babel's banner attached monumental significance to this launch. Even if the common soldiers lacked a comprehensive understanding of the vessel's true historical purpose, it was, at the end of the day, a massive mobile fortress!
These Sarkaz fighters would gladly throw their lives into the gears before allowing a magnificent prize like this fortress to slip into the hands of their adversaries. In the eyes of Babel's vanguard, this iron leviathan was a supreme weapon forged to shatter enemy battlements and claim territory. Yet, running her hands along the bulkheads, Jeanne harbored a persistent intuition that this vessel hadn't originally been built to wage war.
Unable to form a definitive conclusion, the Saintess drifted through the primary bridge like an inquisitive child, her eyes darting from one flashing monitor to the next, her expression radiating a heavy, unmistakable desire to grab the controls and try it out herself.
"What is it? Harboring a sudden urge to try your hand at the helm?"
Right as the thought crossed her mind, a soft, teasing voice materialized from behind her, effortlessly reading her internal desires as if they were written in bold print.
Jeanne spun around, discovering that the speaker was none other than the only other under-occupied soul on the bridge—Theresa, the very woman who had shared the grand opening switch with her just moments prior. A trace of faint, playful melancholy was visible across the Demon King's delicate features.
The Saintess offered zero deflection, giving a brief, honest nod before looking back toward the engineers who were sweating over the primary mainframes. With a touch of envy, she noted, "I would love nothing more than to take this massive giant for a spin. But seeing how incredibly frantic the crews are right now... I think it is best if I refrain from stepping into their path and causing an unmitigated disaster."
Her complete lack of technical literacy regarding these ancient instruments was absolute, yet the raw, primal urge to simply push a few buttons and watch the fortress move was written so clearly across her face that one didn't even require telepathic arts to decipher her intent.
Still, possessing a healthy modicum of self-preservation, Jeanne kept her distance. Thanks to the absolute precision of her divine Revelation, she was supremely confident she could navigate the colossal vessel without triggering a structural failure—in fact, her divine guidance would likely make her far more efficient at the task than the trained crew members.
"To be entirely frank, I harbor the exact same urge," Theresa admitted with a gentle smile, closing the distance between them. "But the current environment is a bit too volatile to justify a casual lesson. If even I were to step in and disrupt the professional crew's rhythm right now, Kal'tsit would undoubtedly force me to pen a formal letter of self-reflection by nightfall."
Jeanne let out a quiet breath, deeply amused. Who would have guessed that this immensely powerful, martial-focused Demon King possessed an underlying fascination with heavy machinery? The evolutionary branches of the Sarkaz race truly seemed to have distributed their talent attributes in the most unexpected directions.
"I do not mind you laughing at my expense," Theresa continued, her voice soft as she surveyed the humming bridge. "I have always harbored a profound, insatiable curiosity toward mechanisms I cannot logically decipher. Regrettably, my natural aptitude for the hard sciences leaves a great deal to be desired."
Truth be told, the Demon King was finding her presence on the bridge rather redundant. Both the Doctor and Kal'tsit had thrown themselves headfirst into the calibration, leaving her to stand idly in the corner.
To pass the time, Theresa began recounting a series of lighthearted historical blunders, describing the time she had accidentally pulverized one of Closure's specialized drones, or the various automated devices the Doctor had assembled that had met a swift demise under her hands.
It was undeniably clear that her fascination with engineering was genuine. The stories reminded Jeanne of her very first day within the facility, when she had caught Theresa staring at a locked security door with a burning desire to dismantle the lock mechanism herself.
If she hadn't been born a Sarkaz, let alone forced to carry the crushing mantle of the Demon King, Jeanne mused, recalling a casual late-night conversation where the Doctor had shared a similar sentiment, she would have likely migrated to the grand universities of Columbia, emerging as an incredibly brilliant academic scholar.
Before her mind could wander any further down that hypothetical path, a sudden, distinct tugging sensation pulled her back to reality. Someone was aggressively bunching the lower hem of her long black coat in their fist.
The Saintess lowered her gaze, finding her well-behaved little ornament straining with all her might against the fabric, her entire expression signaling that she had an emergency of monumental proportions to communicate.
One look at Fafnir's desperate face—where the word "starving" was practically written in flaming letters—and Jeanne didn't even need to wait for the child to speak to know exactly what was coming.
"Jeanne, my stomach is completely empty! When are we finally going to march toward the food sector?"
Sure enough, the little apex predator was demanding her morning fuel. Thanks to Jeanne's relentless, exhausting lectures over the past week, the young dragon had finally ceased viewing the communal hall as an active hunting ground, reclassifying it strictly as a designated eating zone.
Previously, the Saintess had been plagued by a terrifying vision of the child crossing paths with a random Liberi or Kuranta worker, mistaking them for a localized variant of a wild animal, and promptly knocking them unconscious to drag back to a makeshift roasting spit.
"Oh? Has little Fafnir truly not broken her fast yet?" Theresa remarked, stepping down to address the young dragon directly. To Jeanne's utter amazement, the little calamity didn't offer her usual cold indifference; instead, she engaged the Demon King with a striking level of familiarity.
When on earth did this variable develop? Jeanne wondered, her eyes wide. Why is this stubborn little creature, who normally refuses to offer anyone besides myself the time of day, suddenly acting like old friends with Theresa?
The mystery resolved itself the exact moment she witnessed Fafnir skillfully reach out and snatch Theresa's personal meal token right out of her palm. Jeanne finally understood the real-world execution of the Doctor's original promise that the administration would "cover the child's living expenses." It was a beautifully simple, thoroughly practical arrangement.
As for why they hadn't simply issued Fafnir her own automated account, opting instead to force her to locate Theresa for every single meal? That was undoubtedly another calculation born from the Doctor's brilliant mind, designed to systematically forge an unbreakable bond of affection between the young dragon and the leader of Babel.
By this point, Fafnir had clearly equated the Demon King with a permanent, walking ticket to a free buffet. Aside from her absolute devotion to Jeanne as her primary guardian and parent, this was likely the closest, most dependable relationship the young dragon possessed in the entire world.
That cloaked strategist truly leaves zero stone unturned when it comes to social engineering, Jeanne thought. Still, since these subtle maneuvers carried zero malicious intent, the Saintess found no reason to harbor any real displeasure.
With a soft sigh, Jeanne prepared to escort the little dragon toward the dining sector to forage for sustenance. Privately, she offered a silent prayer for the kitchen staff; attempting to fulfill the concurrent culinary demands of her own enhanced appetite and Fafnir's bottomless stomach was nothing short of an absolute tragedy for the cooks.
"Argh! What on earth is this absolute garbage of a verification protocol? Is there truly not a single soul across this entire vessel who can bypass this wretched puzzle and grant us direct control over this [untranslatable Sarkaz curse] operating system? Who in their right mind engineered this sequence?!"
Just as Jeanne turned to depart, Closure's voice erupted into a violent, unfiltered scream of pure engineering rage. The vampire engineer looked completely pushed to the edge of insanity by the blinking terminal screen before her!
Standing immediately beside the console, the Doctor quietly lowered her head, a distinct wave of guilt radiating from her posture. The multi-layered verification barrier had originally been implemented by her own hands to prevent hostile forces from uncovering the vessel's deepest secrets should the fortress ever be compromised.
The crushing flaw in her strategic design was simple: she had completely forgotten the correct sequence, along with the mountain of secondary alphanumeric passwords that followed it.
"It is merely a standard six-digit string!" the Doctor offered in a hushed, desperate attempt to soothe the raging engineer. "We can simply systematically test every numerical configuration. Fortunately, I already deactivated the automated self-destruct sequence that triggers upon multiple failures. The absolute worst-case scenario is that our departure schedule slips by a few hours, right?"
The solution she proposed was as archaic as it was terrifying: manually inputs every single mathematical combination until they struck oil. While undeniably primitive, it remained their only functional path forward.
The moment the command left the Doctor's mouth, an expression that clearly screamed someone please end my life washed over every engineer within earshot. Instantly, the brilliant minds of Babel transformed into mindless, automated password-testing machines, their fingers clicking rhythmically as they tried to stumble upon the lone sequence of correct digits.
"Try entering 508558. Let's see if that clears the terminal."
Right as Closure's expression reached a peak of absolute baldness-inducing despair, a calm, measured voice materialized from immediately behind her chair.
Without fully registering the identity of the speaker, the engineer's fingers instinctively danced across the mechanical keyboard, punching the six digits into the prompt before her brain finally caught up to the fact that someone had addressed her directly.
She spun around, her eyes landing squarely on Jeanne, who was still loosely holding Fafnir's hand on her way out the door.
The only reason the Saintess had offered the sequence was that the moment her gaze had drifted across the flashing input bracket on the monitor, a sudden, blinding flash of divine Revelation had etched those exact numbers into her consciousness. The development left Jeanne thoroughly amazed; she had just discovered an entirely new utility for her heavenly guidance!
Closure turned back to the screen, harboring a complete lack of expectations. After all, she was fully aware that Jeanne's comprehension of advanced machinery was arguably lower than Theresa's; there was zero logical blueprint connecting the Saintess to a highly classified security code.
Then, the monitor flashed.
The harsh red warning text vanished, replaced by a massive green prompt reading VERIFICATION SUCCESSFUL. A fraction of a second later, a completely unfamiliar, deep-level interface blossomed across Closure's screen.
The sequence the Saintess had casually tossed out was the literal, authentic code!
In the next heartbeat, Jeanne felt the entire atmosphere of the bridge shift violently. The gaze Closure—and practically every single operator in the room—directed toward her frame was thoroughly unsettling. Those wide, burning eyes mirrored the exact expression Fafnir wore when staring down a whole roasted lamb, or the look a group of mischievous Yeti squadron members utilized when quietly plotting a massive prank behind their big sister's back.
Regardless of the exact variables, it was an exceptionally dangerous look! Realizing the stakes, Jeanne felt an overwhelming urge to evacuate the perimeter immediately, terrified that she might find herself trapped like Frostnova stumbling into a Yeti-constructed pitfall.
The personnel of Babel are truly missing a few structural screws, the Saintess thought frantically as she quickened her pace. Dear God, please ensure that my extended stay among these eccentric souls doesn't permanently ruin my own morals!
(An ethereal voice echoed in the void: Rest easy, child. As long as their proximity doesn't cause your own common sense to decay entirely, the world will remain a safe place.)