From a thousand miles out, the Airfield Princess and her party could still see the south lighting up like a rock festival—fireballs blooming, shockwaves rolling this far. The fighting down there was savage.
"We've been running night massed-torpedo strikes—this is already the second night," said Flagship M, face tight. "Results are poor."
The Airfield Princess snorted, but swallowed the taunt on her tongue.
Embarrassing. Throwing millions of Abyssals at what's said to be a ten-person port, bleeding and losing—and now reduced to wearing them down with pure numbers. Millions to grind a handful? People would laugh for three days straight—no, forever.
She didn't ask, but the Fortress Princess did, more meticulous by nature. "What's that harbor's actual strength? Headcount?"
If they'd been fighting this long—after losing a crop of flagships—yet still hadn't fully scouted the port, then in the Airfield Princess's book the proper thing for Musashi to do was find a deep patch and sink.
"Not counting the four outsiders, about seventeen to twenty," said Abyssal Musashi, a twitch running over her face. "We have never managed a complete look inside their base."
"If I were you, I'd scuttle myself," the Airfield Princess said, lip curling.
Musashi held it in. She only gave the Airfield Princess a long look. "You'll regret saying that."
"Numbers are a little higher than the last report," the Fortress Princess went on, thinking it through. "Walk us through the ones that actually matter."
"First, Bismarck," Musashi said. "A defensive skill that lets her stand against tens of thousands, a decapitation strike that does not miss, and—very likely—a phoenix-like self-revive. My two bruisers, Yamato and Friedrich der Große, were both cut down by her. I'm certain she's level 110. You must swarm her with top-tier flagships; regular ships are just dead weight."
"Tirpitz, Bismarck's sister," she continued. "She hasn't acted in the recent battles—our read is she's glued to her admiral. Based on her South Seas performance, she's no weaker than her sister, with an area-control defensive aura that can lock down a slice of ocean."
"Prince of Wales—if that's her. Not close to Bismarck, but clearly over level 100; under pursuit by tens of thousands, she still screened the carriers for nearly an hour."
"Missile destroyer—should be Changchun. If you spot her, sink her immediately. Her missile strikes are vicious, easily 100+ level, maybe higher."
"Carriers: Lexington, Saratoga, plus two others—one is new. Their levels and loadouts are terrifying; 'ace' squadrons come out in waves. You'll see soon enough."
"Submarine U-47. Almost certainly level 110. She's the most dangerous assassin—though with your scale and hull forms, you two needn't be overawed."
That much was true: a sub trying to assassinate an installation the size of the Airfield or Fortress Princess—whose "rigging," in a sense, is their body—was a tall order.
(Which was why Hikaru walking off with St. George's Dragon-Slayer was, in essence, taking a piece of St. George's self—the same reason Glory of the Union hated lending out her command blade, and Lexington had to smooth it over.)
"Beyond that," Musashi finished, "they've got Yamato, Alaska, Leipzig, and a few others—either under-leveled or the class just can't carry a fight. Small fry. The only thing to really watch is that human Commander pulling new shipgirls out of his hat."
By the end of the briefing, the Airfield Princess was frowning hard, thumb brushing the golden eagle on her visor.
"I'm not saying they're so strong," she said, "but in your mouth 100-plus, even 110-level shipgirls grow like cabbages. What power does that human have, that his fleet keeps breaking past the cap?"
[End of Chapter]
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