November 14 — 0700 Hours
It had been a week since their last operation. Today, that streak ended.
The four pilots sat quiet in the briefing room, the pale morning light filtering through frosted panes. They'd been called in at 0700 sharp; the briefing had not yet started. No one minded. For Emilie, Mona, Teppei, and Ayaka, the extra quiet before wheels-up was a blessing — a brief pocket of calm to sharpen minds and check lists.
Ayaka watched Mona doodle and scribble in a small leather notebook. "Hey, Mona — what are you writing in there?" she asked, voice soft.
Mona tapped her pencil against her lip, thoughtful. "I'm trying to remember a line… something about a demon."
Teppei leaned in, curiosity written across his face. "May I?"
Mona jerked the notebook away, embarrassed. "H-hey!"
She exhaled sharply. "It's on the tip of my tongue… 'When history witnesses a great change…' something something…"
Emilie snapped her fingers, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "Emberhowl."
Mona looked up, surprised. "You know it?"
Emilie nodded. "Of course. 'The Demon of Emberhowl.' Old maritime legend — Snezhnayan origin."
Teppei brightened. "My mum used to scare me with that story when I was a kid."
Emilie leaned over, tracing the margin with a finger. "The line you're looking for goes: 'When history witnesses a great change, Emberhowl reveals itself. First, as a dark demon—and as a demon, it rained death upon the land. Then dies... However, after a period of slumber... Emberhowl returns.'"
At that moment the heavy briefing door creaked open.
"Settle down, everyone." The voice belonged to the base commander; it carried the kind of authority that tightened shoulders and stilled whispers.
He was followed by another officer with a different air — composed, clinical. "Colonel, sir," the newcomer said politely, "If I may… I'll take this one. This operation matters for all of Teyvat."
The newcomer turned to face them. "I'm Lieutenant Colonel Vale, strategic advisor from Teyvat Defense Central Command. I'll brief you."
The colonel inclined his head. "Go ahead."
Vale's voice was flat and exact. "Wolfsbane — listen up. This mission could determine the trajectory of the war."
He brought up a holographic map over the central display: coastlines, straits, unit overlays. The Emberhowl Straits glowed at the northwest corner, a thin corridor of sea and shadow.
"Our combined ground forces — Mondstadt, Liyue, Sumeru, and Fontaine — will launch a major offensive aimed at Natlan's capital. If it succeeds, it should collapse enemy command and force a fast end to the campaign."
The room absorbed the scale. Vale let it settle. Then he read off the problem like a diagnosis. "Last night our forward beachhead at Tequemecan took a ballistic barrage. ELINT and sonar traces attribute the strike to a Faxi-class submarine — the Nuckelavee."
He let the name hang. The pilots felt it like a cold gust.
"The sub is operating inside the Emberhowl Straits. It's carrier-class and heavily armed — capable of launching long-range ballistic strikes from underwater. If it gets another salvo off during our offensive, it will blunt the entire push."
A dotted track traced across the map. "Our sensors have just detected a supply submarine en route to rendezvous with the Nuckelavee. We have high confidence it's carrying a fresh load of ballistic missiles intended to top off the Nuckelavee's tubes. The resupply is scheduled at Zero Hour — exactly when our ground forces advance. To reload, the Nuckelavee must surface."
He faced them. "You will intercept before that happens."
Vale's finger traced the ingress corridor. "You'll ingress through the Emberhowl Straits at ultra-low altitude — under one thousand feet AGL. Picket subs and hydrophone fields patrol the perimeter, and there are radar/hydrophone buoys out along the approaches. Detection gives the Nuckelavee at most one minute to emergency dive. If that happens, we lose the shot."
He stepped forward, voice hard. "This must be a surprise. No warnings. No mercy. You will sink that fucking sub."
He barked the order like a sentence. "Turn the Emberhowl Straits into a submarine graveyard."
There was no theater, no music. Just Emilie rising, snapping the helmet off the table with a practiced motion.
"Everyone…" she said, eyes to her team. "We've got a sub to sink."
Mona, Teppei, and Ayaka moved without hesitation. Gear in hand, they filed out into the early light. The flight line was already a controlled chaos — crews hustling, tow carts scuttling between birds, fuel trucks idling, marshallers flagging jets to the start positions. Jet turbines ticked as systems came online. Radios chirped.
Emilie paused at the threshold, taking the smell of kerosene and hot metal like a benediction. She checked the bare necessities in her head — weapons load, fuel, ingress profile — and let the checklist fall into place. The plan was simple in words and unforgiving in practice: get low, get in, hit hard, and get out before the sea swallowed their target.
They walked toward their Tomcats, pant legs fluttering in the early breeze, each one feeling the weight of a few more lives depending on the success of their run. The Emberhowl Straits waited — cold water, sharper danger, and a small, brittle window to change the course of the war.
They walked with purpose, not a word between them.
Each pilot reached their F-14A Tomcat—scarred from weeks of combat but still lethal, still ready. The ground crews stood by with flashlights and marshalling wands, breath misting in the dawn chill.
Emilie climbed the ladder, boots clanging against the rungs, and slid into the cockpit. The air inside smelled of oil, scorched wiring, and the faint tang of hydraulic fluid—a fighter's perfume. She pulled her harness across her flight suit, clicked the buckle home, and cinched it tight until the straps bit into her shoulders.
Her gloved hand reached overhead and toggled the canopy switch. The plexiglass dome hissed downward, sealing her in with a heavy mechanical clunk that muted the outside world.
A crew chief on the tarmac gave her a thumbs-up. She returned it with a curt nod before sliding on her helmet, lowering the visor, and exhaling slowly.
Her hands moved with instinctive precision. Right console—engine start panel. She flipped the guarded switch for Engine Two.
Whine…
The right TF30 began spooling, a banshee's wail building through the cockpit.
Instruments flickered alive.
20% RPM.
She eased the right throttle from Cutoff to Idle. The EGT needle crept upward. The engine caught, stabilizing with a guttural rumble that shook her seat.
She repeated the drill for the left engine. Seconds later, both TF30s were alive, their uneven growl reverberating through the deck—a sound equal parts promise and warning.
Below, the ground crew swarmed with practiced urgency. External air cart disconnected, hydraulic lines pulled free, chocks yanked from the wheels. Another thumbs-up flashed from the crew chief. Emilie returned it with a crisp salute and released the parking brake.
Her Tomcat rolled forward, nose light sweeping across the taxiway.
One by one, Mona, Teppei, and Ayaka joined her. Their Tomcats moved in trail, canopies closed, engines snarling, navigation lights stabbing through the dawn haze. The four machines moved like predators in formation, heavy with ordnance, wings pinned at 20°.
Emilie swung her jet onto the runway threshold, lined up on the centerline, and stood on the brakes. Her eyes locked on the dark strip of asphalt stretching into the horizon.
The tower crackled into her headset.
"Wolfsbane, you are cleared for takeoff. Altitude restrictions lifted. Good hunting."
Emilie keyed her mic.
"Wilco, Tower. Wolfsbane is rolling."
She released the brakes and slammed both throttles forward past the detent into full afterburner.
The TF30s howled. Twin spears of flame erupted from the nozzles, thunder rolling across the field. The Tomcat leapt forward, pressing her into the seat.
Airspeed alive.
120 knots… 130… 140… 150…
167. Emilie eased back on the stick. The nose lifted, the jet unshackling from gravity as it clawed skyward.
Gear up. Flaps retracted. The wings automatically swept aft to 40°, the jet knifing into the morning sky.
Behind her, Mona, Teppei, and Ayaka roared down the runway in sequence, their Tomcats lifting into the air one after another, afterburners blazing like fire trails across the dawn.
Within minutes, the four-ship had formed up, a tight diamond slicing northward. Contrails feathered off their wingtips as they climbed through the first cloud layer.
Emilie's eyes flicked to her instruments, then out toward the horizon.
Toward northern Snezhnaya.
Toward Emberhowl Straits.
But first—
a mid-air refueling awaited them at the halfway mark.
Hours Later
FL360 – Northern Teyvat Airspace
The four F-14A Tomcats cruised high above the clouds at thirty-six thousand feet, their TF30 engines droning with steady, restrained power. The air was thin here, the horizon a sharp curve, the sky overhead a dark, endless indigo.
In her cockpit, Emilie tugged her oxygen mask loose, letting it dangle on its strap. The cabin hissed faintly with pressurized air. She cracked open her water bottle, tilted her head back, and took several long pulls. Cool liquid ran down her throat, washing away the dryness of hours at altitude. She wiped her mouth with the back of her glove, exhaling hard.
"Man," she muttered under her breath, "another three hours to go…"
The squadron net was quiet until Ayaka's voice broke the stillness.
"Hey, guys… did I ever tell you about my brother?"
Emilie lifted her mask close, keyed the mic.
"Not yet? I think maybe you mentioned it once."
Teppei cut in, tone curious.
"Wait—you've got a brother?"
Ayaka chuckled softly. "That's right. He fought in the Tequemecan landing. Served in one of the ground units. The 405th Armée de l'Air was overhead, giving cover."
Emilie's eyes softened. "How's he doing now?"
"Resting," Ayaka replied. "He's earned it. He'll rotate in when the push on the capital begins."
Teppei gave a long sigh. "Man, I wish we got that kind of downtime."
The banter was cut short by a new voice, sharp and professional.
"This is Tanker One. We're five miles out, twelve o'clock high. Prepare for mid-air refueling. Confirm probe status."
Emilie's voice steadied, her leader's tone cutting through.
"Raven taking left basket. Starseer, you're right. Soumetsu, you've got center probe. Herring, hold station—you're last on rotation."
Predictably, Teppei groaned. "Aw, come on! Why am I always last?"
A chuckle rolled in from the tanker's boom operator.
"Because someone's gotta keep the radio alive while the rest of you are heads-down."
Even Emilie smirked as Teppei laughed.
"Alright, alright. I'll take the hit. For now."
Mona was first to ease forward. "Starseer, moving to pre-contact."
"Copy that, Starseer. Cleared for contact. Basket's yours."
Emilie flicked the switch by her left knee. With a mechanical clunk-thunk, the Tomcat's refueling probe extended from its portside fairing, jutting forward like a lance. She trimmed carefully, easing the throttles, and nosed into the tanker's wake.
The drogue basket swayed on its hose, bobbing slightly in disturbed air. Emilie lined her nose up, steady hands guiding fifty thousand pounds of jet with the lightest fingertip corrections.
"Looking good, Raven. A little closer…"
The metal probe slipped into the basket's center with a muffled jolt.
Thunk.
"Contact, Raven. Fuel flow established."
The gauges ticked upward as kerosene surged into her tanks. Emilie kept her Tomcat rock steady, eyes alternating between her instruments and the basket. To her right, she caught Mona's jet sliding in, probe extended, basket coupling clean on the first try. Ayaka followed next, her Tomcat drifting gently into position.
"Soumetsu," Emilie called, "first time on a drogue?"
A pause, then Ayaka's voice came back, a touch stiff. "Y-Yes. It is."
Emilie grinned beneath her mask. "Smooth approach. You didn't even wave off. That's rare."
Mona chuckled. "Unlike a certain someone I won't name…"
Teppei barked back instantly. "H-Hey! What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
Emilie laughed. "Relax, Herring. Everyone remembers their first hookup. You just… bounced it three times before locking in."
"I was calibrating," Teppei deadpanned. "Thoroughly."
The laughter eased the tension, though their hands stayed iron-steady on the controls. Refueling wasn't glamorous—one bad slip and you sheared probe, hose, or worse.
Minutes later, Emilie's fuel gauge hit full.
"Raven complete. Disconnecting."
She eased off the drogue, probe retracting with a metallic hiss. Mona and Ayaka followed suit, sliding clear one by one until only Teppei was left. He lined up, muttering the whole time, then finally got a clean clunk on his first pass—earning himself a sarcastic cheer from the tanker crew.
Fuel topped, the four Tomcats rejoined in a clean diamond, sliding back into formation with practiced ease. The tanker shrank behind them, just another speck in the endless sky.
They pushed north, throttles set, contrails feathering off their wingtips.
This time, the radios stayed quiet.
The next call they made wouldn't be for laughs.
It would be for combat.
Three hours had passed.
The four Tomcats roared across the Emberhowl Straits, hugging barely two hundred feet AGL. Their contrails were nonexistent at this altitude, just shock diamonds flashing faintly in the afterburner haze. The sea beneath was dark steel, reflecting the last amber rays of the sun as it sank toward the horizon.
The radios broke the monotony.
"This is Thunderspike! Wolfsbane, maintain low altitude and proceed toward the submarines!"
"Ceiling restriction is one-thousand feet!" another controller snapped.
Emilie eased the throttles into military power, TF30s giving a throat-deep rumble that vibrated through the stick and rudder pedals. The jet settled into a steady cruise, engines working hard against the dense air at sea level.
Her wingmen followed suit, keeping formation tight. Spray shimmered beneath their fuselages as they scythed over the water.
Teppei's voice cut in, uneasy.
"I—I'm getting the chills… This is the northern sea where the Demon of Emberhowl came from…"
Mona answered, clipped. "Emberhowl."
Teppei forced a laugh that didn't quite land. "Heh… no way in hell this is the Emberhowl!"
Thunderspike immediately overrode them, tone like a whip.
"Cut the chatter. Radio silence commencing."
"Heh. Fine by me—guess I'll just key out and talk to myself then," Teppei muttered, but kept it low.
They pressed the throttles, edging closer to transonic speed, Tomcats knifing through the frigid dusk air. The coastline fell away behind them.
Then static hissed, sharp and sudden, before a new voice broke in—urgent, authoritative.
"This is Lieutenant Colonel McKinsley, advisor to HQ. A picket submarine has detected your movement! The Nuckelavee is preparing to dive in one minute—ATTACK IMMEDIATELY!"
Emilie didn't think twice. She rammed the throttles through the detent, afterburners roaring to life. Twin plumes lit the night as her Tomcat surged forward, speed climbing hard.
"Raven, engaging!"
Mona rolled in behind her. "Starseer, engaging!"
Ayaka's voice followed, crisp. "Soumetsu, engaging!"
Teppei barked his call last, voice laced with grim humor.
"Our cover's blown, so screw it—Herring, engaging!"
The four F-14As howled across the steel-grey sea, burners stabbing bright blue into the gathering dark as they hurtled toward their target. Vapor shockcones shimmered around their wings as the quartet broke the sound barrier, skimming barely above the waves.
Enemy comms flared to life—hurried, panicked bursts of static-laced voices:
"Enemy planes inbound! Halt the resupply!"
"E-Enemy planes!? We're still mid-mission!"
"How the hell did they find us!?"
Then they saw it—looming through the haze, a massive black silhouette breaking the horizon. The Nuckelavee, surfaced, its hull dwarfing the waves around it.
Inside her cockpit, Emilie's thumb flicked the selector switch over the left console. A green light blinked on her HUD—GBU-12 Paveway II selected. She throttled back to idle, nose dipping into a shallow attack profile. The crosshairs in her heads-up display slid over the submarine's midline.
"Target acquired." Her voice was calm, clipped.
She squeezed the trigger.
Clunk—clunk—clunk—clunk.
Four precision-guided bombs dropped clean, fins snapping open as they fell.
Emilie rammed her throttles forward, felt the TF30s snarl as afterburners lit. She hauled back on the stick—hard. The Tomcat's nose snapped skyward, wings flexing as G-forces crushed her into the seat.
Below, four blossoms of fire and water tore upward. Geysers of spray engulfed the submarine's midsection.
"Impact confirmed," Emilie reported sharply. "Damage to enemy sub unknown."
The reply came ragged, panicked:
"The sonuvabitch is diving!" Teppei shouted.
The Nuckelavee's great hull began sliding beneath the waves, steel vanishing under boiling foam. Emilie eased her climb, banking left in a wide arc to keep the last known position in sight.
Enemy comms screamed again—raw panic across the ether:
"This is the Faxi Submarine Squadron! Enemy reports incoming—massive assault toward the capital! Nuckelavee is to launch cruise missiles immediately! Transmitting coordinates—this is urgent!"
From Nuckelavee's bridge came clipped chaos:
"Unable to launch missiles! Hull damage sustained!"
"Then what the hell are you good for!? If we don't fire those missiles now, we're all screwed!"
"Fine! Preparing emergency surfacing—brace yourselves! Once we're up, launch the drones!"
Ayaka's voice cut in, taut but steady:
"Submarine's surfacing—I've got the antenna breaking water!"
A violent plume erupted, the Nuckelavee's bow breaching upward before slamming back down, spray exploding skyward.
Then—whoosh! A projectile tore free, climbing vertical, a smoke trail carving skyward.
"NUCKELAVEE LAUNCHING BURST MISSILES!" Thunderspike barked over comms.
Moments later, UAVs leapt skyward from its deck, wings flashing in the fading light.
Emilie rolled hard, snapping her Tomcat inverted and diving. Her eyes locked on the sub's silhouette.
McKinsley's voice punched in, clipped and sharp:
"This is Lt. Colonel McKinsley. Missile is being tracked via satellite uplink. Time your strikes with its next surfacing. Sink that sub before it inflicts damage on our ground forces!"
Emilie said nothing. Her world narrowed to the HUD reticle and the trembling outline of the submarine. She leveled out, throttle and stick steady, waiting for the lock tone.
Beep—steady tone.
"Locked."
She fired. Clunk—clunk—clunk—clunk.
Four more GBU-12s slipped cleanly away, fins glinting in the sunset.
"Bombs away! Bombs away!" Emilie shouted.
She slammed the throttles into afterburner, pulled back hard—the Tomcat roared into a vertical climb, airframe groaning.
Below, four explosions ripped into the Nuckelavee's hull in quick succession. The submarine lurched violently, its structure buckling under the impacts.
Enemy comms screamed—metallic, distorted through static:
"Alert! We're taking lethal damage! Nuclear reactor flooding!"
The sea around the beast churned with smoke, fire, and shattered steel.
Ayaka came screaming in low, nose pointed straight at the black hull, her Tomcat crossing paths with Emilie in a flash of wings. She pitched down sharply, HUD symbology jittering as she fought the reticle onto target.
Her voice cut across the net, tight but clear.
"Bombs away! Bombs away!"
Two GBU-12s dropped clean from her racks, fins snapping wide as they caught the slipstream. Ayaka yanked her stick back, throttles up—her F-14 roared into the climb just as twin plumes of fire and spray erupted below. Direct hits.
The Nuckelavee shuddered under the impact, rolling briefly before leveling itself out. Wounded, but not dead.
"Sink that thing, and those burst missiles go with it!" Thunderspike barked over comms.
Above, Mona's cool voice cut through, unshaken even as tracers lit the sky.
"Confirmed… and the metal rain it carries dies with it."
Her Tomcat's M61 Vulcan spat fire. One UAV disintegrated in a burst of fragments, raining debris down across the waves.
"Then we can all go home happily ever after!" Teppei grinned into his mic, thumbing his master arm switch. He slewed a Sidewinder's growl over another drone. Tone steady—he squeezed.
"Fox Two!"
The AIM-9 shrieked off the rail, contrail curling toward its mark. The UAV jinked desperately—too slow. The warhead slammed home, shattering the drone into flaming shards.
"Splash one," Teppei crowed.
Enemy comms bled into the net again, frantic and strained:
"Ballast tanks damaged! Unable to dive!"
Emilie rolled hard left, stick pressed to the stop. Her Tomcat groaned in protest, wings flexing as G-forces piled on. Vapor curled off the tips as she leveled, skimming just above the waves. Her eyes locked on the target—the hulking Nuckelavee, still clawing for survival.
She pulled her throttles back to idle, nose dropping into a steep dive. Gravity clawed at her airframe, the reticle bobbing with every swell and shift of the sub. For an instant—perfect alignment.
"Bombs away! Bombs away!"
Four Paveway IIs fell cleanly away, racks jerking with each release. Emilie wasted no time—throttles slammed forward, burners igniting with a thunderous crack. Twin spears of blue flame roared from the TF30s as she hauled back, bracing her left hand over her right to muscle the stick through the load. The Tomcat clawed skyward, frame rattling under the climb.
Then—impact.
A wall of fire tore across the sub's deck. The Nuckelavee lurched violently, smoke billowing from a torn gash across its hull. The sleek predator was now a burning, broken hulk.
Through the haze, its reactor housing gleamed—exposed.
Enemy comms dissolved into chaos:
"All this DAMAGE from just four planes!? This is impossible!"
"LAUNCH THE BURST MISSILES!"
"SIR! Missile silo is—damaged beyond operation!"
"…They're the Demons of Emberhowl…"
"Emberhowl!? That's superstition—nonsense!"
"THEN EXPLAIN THIS! They took out the Nuckelavee like a bath toy! THEY'RE DEMONS, I TELL YA!"
Emilie's breathing stayed measured, mask hissing with every exhale. Her fight wasn't finished.
She banked hard right, rolling into another diving profile. Her thumb flicked the selector to air-to-air. HUD symbology shifted—two AIM-9 Sidewinders hot.
"Fox Two, Fox Two!"
The missiles streaked free, smoke trails cutting white across the sky. Emilie pulled vertical, not even watching. She didn't need to.
Impact came seconds later—one Sidewinder slamming into the already-ripped hull, ripping it wider. The second drove straight into the exposed reactor.
The world lit up.
A fireball erupted from the sub's centerline, shockwave rolling outward. A column of water punched hundreds of feet skyward, then collapsed into boiling sea spray. The Nuckelavee's back broke in two.
"YES! YES! YES!" Emilie screamed, slamming her fist in the cockpit. She snapped the stick, rolling her Tomcat in a tight aileron victory roll, vapor corkscrewing off her wings.
"That's another submarine kill for Raven!" Thunderspike roared. "Hell of a strike—nicely done!"
Below, the Nuckelavee was finished—bow pitching skyward, stern vanishing beneath the waves. Blackened, battered, beaten by four jets.
Enemy comms returned one final time—not rage, not orders, but resignation.
"Nuckelavee… looks like you were never the real Emberhowl out there…"
"…Maybe… they were trying to tell us something. That our time is up in this world."
The hulk slipped under, bubbles and fire boiling in its wake. Then—one last eruption. The reactor detonated fully, sending a shockwave across the strait, flattening the sea to glass.
Silence.
"Mission accomplished, Wolfsbane," Thunderspike declared, voice ringing with fire. "Return to Petrichor. Celebration party's waiting at the helm!"
Emilie exhaled sharply, a grin breaking across her face beneath the mask. She checked her flanks—Mona, Ayaka, Teppei, tight on her wings.
The four F-14s pulled east, climbing just above the deck, skimming the darkening ocean. Behind them, the sun sank into the horizon, the sea glowing amber.
The fight was over.
And the Demons of Emberhowl had won.
Hours later…
The mood at Petrichor Air Force Base was electric.
Word had already spread—fast. Not only had the Faxi-class submarines, the pride of the Natlan Navy, been sent to the bottom, but Wolfsbane Squadron's name was no longer dragging in the dirt. The brand of "traitors" was starting to peel away, replaced with something truer. They weren't fugitives anymore. They were fighters.
Inside the mess hall, the atmosphere was near chaos. Tables were shoved together in long rows, trays stacked at the sides, Fontaine beer tapped and flowing like water. Laughter and cheers filled the room, rolling up to the rafters and carrying down the hallways. Ground crews, mechanics, and pilots alike reveled shoulder to shoulder, toasting the long-overdue victory.
At the heart of it all, Emilie stood tall with a glass in hand, raising it above her head.
"Cheers, everyone!"
Her voice cut through the din, and her wingmates—Mona, Teppei, and Ayaka—lifted theirs to meet hers.
"Cheers!" they echoed, the word carrying a sense of pride only earned by fire and survival.
They drank deep. Fontaine brew—cold, bitter, sharp. The kind of drink that burned away the lingering adrenaline and washed clean the iron taste of fear left from hours in the cockpit.
Teppei slammed his glass back down on the table with a wide grin. His cheeks were already flushed from the alcohol.
"Man! Feels like the tide of this damn war is finally turning our way!"
Mona smirked, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"You got that right, Teppei."
Her voice dropped, softer, edged with thoughtfulness.
"Maybe now Teyvat's brass—and Fontaine's too—will finally realize we weren't the ones who lit this fuse."
Emilie leaned forward, resting her elbow on the table, her expression steady as ever. She raised a finger, like she was making a toast of her own.
"Let's hope so, kid. Let's hope so."
Not far from their table, across the bustling room, Houallet stood with his phone held up, quietly recording. His angle wasn't for propaganda or a press release. This was for history. He panned across the room, catching the pilots in their moment—smiles cracked wide, eyes alive again after weeks of darkness.
His lens settled on Kaeya, leaning lazily against a table in the corner, a bottle of beer dangling loosely from one hand.
"Were you an ace pilot once, Kaeya?" Houallet asked, half teasing, half genuinely curious.
Kaeya grinned slyly, putting his free hand over his chest in mock humility.
"Me? Not anymore."
He tilted his head toward the celebrating four—Emilie, Mona, Teppei, Ayaka—now mobbed by crew and fellow pilots offering their congratulations.
"The real aces are right there. They're the ones who sent a submarine to the bottom."
Houallet lowered his phone, his expression sharpening.
"Still… I heard you flew in the last war. Had a reputation back then."
Kaeya laughed, a low, wry sound that carried nostalgia like smoke.
"Past is past, kid. These days, I keep the birds in the air. I don't fly them myself."
He paused, swirling the bottle before taking another drink. His voice softened, almost reflective.
"Captain Candace once told me… 'Time comes when we step aside, and let the next generation soar.'"
He nodded toward Wolfsbane's table.
"Those four? They're the next generation."
Houallet took a step closer, the noise of the party fading a little behind their exchange.
"Where'd you meet Captain Candace anyway?"
Kaeya's grin eased away, his eyes narrowing as memory surfaced. He let out a slow breath before answering.
"Nod-Krai. Fifteen years ago. Both of us got shot down behind enemy lines—bailed out, linked up, and ran like hell across a warzone until we reached friendly ground."
He chuckled darkly, though his eyes stayed distant.
"We had to convince half a platoon we weren't spies before they'd even give us water. That was a fun day."
Houallet tilted his head, voice quieter now.
"Was there a plane that stood out to you during all that?"
Kaeya's gaze drifted up to the ceiling, as if the weight of the memory had gravity.
"Yeah… there was. Two F-15C Eagles, Snezhnaya Air Force. 6th Air Division, 10th Squadron."
His voice dropped lower, like speaking the words made the air heavier.
"But one of them… one was different. Grey, black, red accents. An F-15C that carved through the sky like a blade."
He set his beer down, his expression hardening.
"They called her pilot… 'The Demon of Nod-Krai.'"
Kaeya's eyes darkened, his voice just above a whisper now.
"And let me tell you something, kid… you don't forget a name like that. And you never forget what it feels like to see a real monster fly."