The maneuver clicked, and Airfield Princess brimmed with confidence.
Next came the victory of speed.
Her black eagles snapped to Mach 3.5 in a heartbeat—no, even higher. In this peak state she swore some of them were tipping Mach 4.
Then her smile died.
The four hundred black eagles weren't closing on the bomber formation at all.
They were falling behind.
Not just a little—left choking on contrails, not even a taste of wake.
What were those bombers doing—Mach 10? Mach 20? Mach 30?
Hands shaking, Airfield Princess fired her beam batteries.
Beams screaming along at 10,000 m/s still got left in the dust.
She was stunned. If those carrier planes could burst to thirty Mach—even for thirty seconds—that was an untouchable get-out-of-jail card. Who knew how long they could hold it?
So this was what six-star hero craft could do in the hands of masters. Were they all level 110?
Top training, top airframes—downright cheating.
While she doubted reality, Hindenburg was already shrieking:
"Air raid!"
That sudden speed spike didn't just leave her black eagles eating nothing—it put the hero bombers at release range in a blink.
The Abyssal center hadn't even finished knitting into a wheel formation. Orders had gone out two, three minutes ago—most units were still moving.
Five hundred sixty rainbow-tailed bombers ripped the overcast and punched straight for the sprawling Base 544.
Scattered flak clawed upward, but Lexington's air group had been sitting on their full envelope for this very moment. The first time they showed it would be at the kill.
Every burst missed. Even the fortress flak the Fortress Princess had just raised froze a heartbeat too long before coughing to life.
At over 10,000 m/s, the "we just saw them" moment and the "they're overhead" moment were the same breath. Fortress Princess hadn't even processed it yet, then panicked and slewed thousands of guns to wild fire—better than aiming, honestly.
Still hit nothing.
Bad. Very bad.
Musashi's stomach dropped.
Wrong read—the enemy's target wasn't Base 544.
Bombs keep momentum after release; with speeds like that, they'd never wait to be directly overhead. They'd drop as soon as they knifed through the cloud deck.
They were bombing someone else.
But everyone was still dazed from the ambush. Too late to reposition. Musashi could only roar, "Incoming! Scatter!"
Bombers moved at thirty Mach; her warning moved at one.
It did nothing.
At the height of the base, the 560-plane phalanx flowered, each streak peeling toward a chosen kill.
Rain sheeted her face; wind howled her ears; "M" felt her knees knock. A part of her wanted to ditch pride, dive, and hide under the waves.
Two hundred. An entire two hundred rainbow-tailed heroes were arrowing for her alone—bullets across a black, storm-lit sky.
No—faster than bullets.
Her level-100 senses were sharp enough to read paintwork at absurd speed. On every olive-drab, twin-engine bomber's nose: the pin-up of a sleek carrier girl—long golden ponytail, two-piece uniform, elegant profile.
She knew that mark: Hornet's signature, stamped on B-25s to declare her claim.
"M" clenched her whip, mouth dry. Two hundred B-25s—by the damage tables of the past few days—could sink her outright.
She couldn't flee. She couldn't truly dodge. All she could do was trust pure technique and try to slip the bombs by a hair.
[End of Chapter]