Magicaregia, Annorial Empire — February 6, 2020
The glorious lights that dotted the evening skyline of Magicaregia were a sharp contrast to the seemingly pre-industrial image that the Annorials presented to all outsiders, with magical projections and speeding vehicles lining the sprawling network of streets and avenues of the Empire’s prestigious capital. At the very centre of it all atop a great mountain facing the coastline was Orantha Castle, the head of the Annorial government and the residence of Emperor Zarathosthra himself, the latest of a long line of Winged People dating back to when his ancestors were but governors of a province within the mighty Ravernal Empire itself—he and his subjects now worked tirelessly to ensure and accelerate the Ancestors’ return to Elysia, whether through the accumulation of the Revival Beacons, the reactivation of their ancient superweapons, or the systematic annihilation of all threats to their destiny as part of a reunited Empire.
With the arrival of the enigmatic Oseans and their unexpected technological prowess, their efforts had recently been redirected towards the third objective—prodding the mysterious foreigners from afar with small tokens and relics of their Ancestors’ past, seeing how they would respond and how the Annorials could counter their newfound rivals. Tales of monuments that reached beyond the realm of the ancient gods and aircraft that exceeded the abilities of even the likes of the dreaded Aji Dhaka and the mighty Pal Aurorae spurred the Emperor into accelerating his plans for world domination—the Osean Federation could easily prove to be the greatest threat to the Ravernal Empire upon its return, and its destruction now took precedence above all else.
With the various experiments on Osean military assets producing mixed results—the attack in Eshirant resulting in the loss of a prized Pal Chimera and the attempts on both the mysterious DarkStar and the Gra Valkan fleet only serving to unexpectedly reveal even more problems for the Empire to deal with—Zarathosthra and his advisors concluded that nothing less than a full and comprehensive attack on the entire Federation would provide the results they desperately needed. Surgical attacks with individual powerful units were clearly ineffective against the sheer scope of Osea’s defenses—instead, spies were secretly smuggled into the country with the intent of identifying and eliminating key leaders, while a Pal Scylla submarine carrier was deployed to observe the Federation’s shores in preparation for a direct attack on its cities. With the Emperor’s blessing, the Annorials made their move, launching dozens of their fighters into Selatapura and setting off their core magic payloads: the destruction of the Space Elevator and the death of Osea’s beloved de facto leader would no doubt be catastrophic for the superpower’s reputation and its ability to respond to their future attacks—to say nothing about how their Gra Valkan counterparts would no doubt react to their prized fleet and their Crown Prince getting caught in the crossfire…
Beneath the castle, the Emperor and his subjects assembled to plan their next move—already, unconfirmed reports were circling throughout the Empire about the damage the Annorials had dealt. Zarathosthra smiled inwards in satisfaction: clearly, the operation had been successful in its aims—now, it was time to see how well the Annorials’ magic had fared in a full-blown battle against its mechanical equals.
With a firm nod, Zarathosthra nodded to his underlings. “Report.”
“The operation was a partial success, Your Excellency—reports from our spies in the Third Civilization Region and Osea have corroborated the news from the Oseans themselves: Ambassador Vincent Harling was successfully eliminated by our decapitation strike, and the other core magic detonations were similarly effective in dealing significant damage to Selatapura and its population. Estimates of casualties are believed to be within the tens to hundreds of thousands, and the damage both to the city and to the Federation’s international reputation for its military strength is significant.”
Even as Director Zamuras continued his report with audible pride, the Emperor recognised the subtle inflections in the underling’s voice that betrayed fear of an unfortunate outcome—postponing unfavorable results for last in the vain hope of avoiding the repercussions of his or his own department’s failures. With a dark expression, hinting at his impatience, Zarathosthra interrupted, “And what about the Space Elevator and the Gra Valkan fleet? Were they similarly destroyed by our task force?”
Zamuras stammered, bravely steeling himself for the Emperor’s wrath even as he shook with his words, “Y-y-your Excellency…the task force was unsuccessful in destroying either the Space Elevator or the Gra Valkans. Our core magic weapons were unable to damage the Lighthouse, and the Oseans and Gra Valkans were able to consolidate their forces to destroy the submarine fleet we deployed—the entire task force was subsequently wiped out by the local defenders, in spite of our own efforts.”
The temperature of the room abruptly dropped as the various officials present paled in horror—the Pal Scylla was one of the many prized possessions of the Ancestors, the submarine carrier and its Pal Aurora fighters widely recognised throughout the Empire as amongst the most advanced technologies still available from the time of the Ravernal Empire itself. For such a prestigious fleet to fail in its primary objectives was shocking enough—for it to be destroyed by not just one but two inferior peoples was an embarrassment, a disgrace to the Annorials and their Ancestors as a whole—
“First our prized Pal Chimera in Philades, and now our Pal Scylla?! What incompetent fools do we have commanding our Ancestors’ vessels—or are we too complacent in our own superiority above the inferior species to pay attention to the most basic of tasks?!” Zarathosthra raged at his subjects, who all cowered before him. “Well? Is anyone before me willing to explain the cause of this aberration on our path to world domination, or must I execute each and every single person here as a lesson to your successors on the consequences of overconfidence?!”
“Your Holiness, I—“
“Speak louder, High General Duran! And speak clearly, and I may yet decide to show mercy!”
“Your Holiness, we did not expect the Oseans to recover as quickly as they did! The pilots and crewmen who sacrificed their lives were amongst the best in the Empire, and the weapons that they wielded were the most formidable in our arsenal—I beseech you, Your Holiness, do not needlessly disparage their unwavering efforts in the Ancestors’ service!”
Zarathosthra’s eyes narrowed. “Then why did our men and our restored weapons fail at their critical tasks? Were the Pal Aurora 2 and 3 insufficient against the Oseans’ defenses?”
“On the contrary, Your Holiness, the reports we received from the Pal Scylla during the operation suggest that the 2 and 3 were capable of matching the standard aircraft fielded by the Oseans in combat—however, there were two problems that delayed our efforts to the point that Osea was able to buy enough time to launch a counterattack—“
Duran gestured to a board, which had several photographs pinned: one was an Osean fighter with an unusual three-lined symbol on its wings, its likeness caught on camera mid-maneuver as a magical beam soared past and a Pal Aurora burst into flames in the background; another was a strange winged object that appeared to be flying on its own accord.
Zarathosthra frowned in confusion. “What exactly am I looking at, High General?”
Gesturing to the three-lined fighter, Duran responded, “This is an aircraft belonging to an Osean ace categorized by our spies as Three Strikes—this individual was previously active in Osea’s military campaigns in Louria and Parpaldia, and is also believed to be single-handedly responsible for the destruction of our Pal Chimera in Eshirant and the loss of our anti-satellite weapon during the sabotage efforts against the experimental DarkStar.”
“And this individual was present during our operations in Selatapura?”
“It would appear to be the case, Your Holiness. The Oseans appear to have recognised his abilities and transferred him to their Lighthouse Division, which was stationed in Tampines Air Base at the time of the attack—he was therefore able to fend off the Pal Aurora units dispatched to destroy the Space Elevator and the Gra Valkan fleet in time for reinforcements to arrive.”
Director Vorus added, “The Oseans appear to have a longstanding tradition of cultivating talent within its air force—they therefore have within their employ an unknown number of pilots whose purported abilities are believed to exceed even the capabilities of our most skilled aces. Under different circumstances, I would believe such claims to have been false or overexaggerated, but…”
Vorus sighed, briefly glancing at High General Duran and his staff before turning back to face the Emperor.
“…the destruction of the Pal Scylla’s fighters—not to mention the losses of our previous incursions against the Oseans—would appear to speak for themselves, Your Holiness.”
Displeased with the unexpected turn of events yet recognising the logic behind his subjects’ arguments, Zarathosthra decided to concede the point. “Very well; perhaps we have once again underestimated the abilities of the Oseans’ defenses. Barring the presence of this individual, would our own aircraft have been capable of achieving their aims?”
“Without the second point to consider, yes, Your Holiness.”
“Make plans to eliminate this pilot with all means necessary, Director—set off another core magic device in their house if we have to. Now, what about the second impediment to our success?”
“It would appear that the reports of the Space Elevator’s fleet of Arsenal Birds were in fact true, Your Holiness—even as we were successful in deploying our core magic weapons, the Oseans deployed what they refer to as UAVs—autonomous aircraft capable of dogfighting enemy aircraft with roughly the same skill as their human counterparts. They appear to be roughly equivalent to our golems and familiars, although far more intelligent and deadly—especially in the overwhelming numbers that were present in Selatapura during our decapitation strike.”
“Would the presence of a Pal Chimera not have provided any benefit to our forces? Even with the lessons we learned from Eshirant, surely a more comprehensive approach to dealing with our enemies would undoubtedly give us more satisfactory results?”
Vorus glanced uncomfortably at Duran, who glared back in response. “It was a point of contention amongst our leadership as to whether to deploy another Pal Chimera to face the Oseans—“
“Director Vorus shared your belief that deploying the majority of our assets for the operation would have reduced the chances of failure and spread out our anticipated casualties, but I had reservations about the risk of yet more of our own assets being destroyed or even falling into the hands of the Oseans. The loss of a Pal Chimera to the inferior peoples, to my assessment, was already a significant blow as it stands.”
“And why was I not informed of this impasse?” Zarathosthra frowned, leaning forward on his throne in suspicion as the Director and High General both felt all eyes turn to them. “Am I, the Emperor, not the final word on where my forces go in service to our Ancestors?”
“Your Holiness, our sincerest apologies!”
The Emperor snarled, gesturing at the two prostate officials to rise. “Cease your mindless rambling. In future situations like this, you are to approach me for my counsel; is that understood? We are no longer dealing with the inane matters of isolationism—we are looking at the survival of the Annorial Empire and the ascendance of our Ancestors to their rightful place in Elysia, and I can ill afford the petty squabbles of underlings who presume to read my thoughts and intentions.”
Duran and Vorus hastily nodded in acknowledgement. “Understood, Your Holiness.”
Seeing the situation laid out before him, Zarathosthra came to a decision. “No matter. With our actions, we are now at war with Osea—we stand at the beginning of our long-awaited campaign to secure Elysia for the return of our Ancestors. Our efforts must be towards eliminating the most dangerous threats to our cause—the rest will submit after realising the futility of resisting us, and with our Revival Beacons we shall return our Ancestors to a world where they are once again superior above all else.”
The Emperor looked down on the meeting table, where a map of the known world was laid out before him—the eastern half of Elysia was closest to his seat, with the Osean continent dominating the area. Sneering at the sight, Zarathosthra pointed and declared, “Begin reactivating all of our existing Pal Chimeras and Scyllas, accelerate development of the Pal Aurora 4, and have our sea creatures prepared to land on the Oseans’ shores. We will begin striking their cities and destroying them as a demonstration of defying the will of our Ancestors—and all who resist will quickly face the same fate as their leaders.”
Zarathosthra looked up confidently at his subjects, assured in the superiority of his cause and the successes that his Empire would no doubt achieve. They were the descendants of the Light Winged People, untouched by all except the Gods themselves—and even they, too, would someday be brought down to heel.
“With their beloved proponent of peace killed by his own hubris and their homeland struck by our weapons, the Oseans shall be forced to reconsider their actions in Elysia—their hearts shall grow cold, their ears deaf to the cries of their allies, their weapons stayed by the possibility of repercussions to their own. And while their leaderless nation remains paralysed by indecision and fear, we shall continue in our own efforts to accelerate the return of our Ancestors, safe in the knowledge that no nation in this world possesses either the ability or willpower to stop us.”
Vorus spoke up, “And should the Oseans decide otherwise, Your Excellency?”
Zarathosthra gave the Director a dark grin. “Well, we shall quickly bridge whatever gaps may exist between Osea and ourselves—and besides, there are still plenty more cities and people for us to annihilate, aren’t there?”
Selatapura, Osean Federation — February 6, 2020
Stumbling past the wreckage left behind by the nuclear detonation in Selatapura’s residential district, Senator Kumari saw President Bartlett seated on a pile of rubble amidst a sprawling crowd of paramedics and firefighters still scrambling to find survivors and put out what few fires remained. “Jack!”
If the President heard her, he didn’t respond, his attention seemingly focused on a glass container in his hands. Kumari walked faster,
“Jack! Jack, what’s happening—“
“This is all that we were able to find of him.”
Kumari glanced at the container in confusion—inside the case was what appeared to be an artificial heart, the outer covering all but vaporized but the device itself still surprisingly intact. Who exactly did that belong to—
The Senator gasped. “That’s—”
“Yep,” Bartlett bitterly confirmed, closely examining the device. “Vincent had some heart problems around the latter stages of his second term, around the time that he was already working on getting the Space Elevator built—probably his unfortunate habit of overworking for the betterment of humanity, by the looks of things.”
Stunned, Kumari silently sat beside the President as they both examined the heart. It was a while before Bartlett began to speak again.
“You know the materials used to construct the Lighthouse? Those were meant to withstand everything between a nuclear explosion and a second asteroid crashing into the Usean continent—and as it turns out, it also makes for a very useful component for artificial hearts. The radiation’s still something we’ll have to deal with, but otherwise…”
Shaking his head, Bartlett placed the container inside his jacket. From the distance, several Osean fighters flew overhead—still patrolling the surrounding region for further threats, he reckoned. Edwards probably knew more than he did on the matter—
“Who did this, Jack? Do we know who’s responsible for all this?”
The President frowned. “My guess? The Annorials—they’ve already been probing us for the past year, and we’ve already identified several individuals in Osea that we think might be linked to their intelligence forces. I mean, we already knew that they might be up to something, but for them to go for Harling and the Lighthouse like this…”
Kumari quickly recalled the security briefing from several weeks back, horror creeping into her face as the scale of the crisis now before them dawned before her. “My god…it’s actually far worse than I imagined…it’s an actual war we’re looking at, not just a random act of terrorism from outsiders?”
“By the looks of it, that would be the case,” Bartlett confirmed. “In hindsight, it probably was only a matter of time before we ended up having to fight someone who both disagreed with our ideals and had the power to challenge us on our own terms. First thing’s first, though—we’re gonna look for survivors, we’re going to count our losses, we’re going to start rebuilding, and then we’re going to find the people responsible for this and bring them to justice. Maybe also hold a memorial service to Harling and everyone else who got caught in the blasts, too.”
The President shook his head, turning to look at the Lighthouse.
“This probably won’t be the last time we’ll be faced with something like this, though; the Annorials will definitely be back if we don’t do something soon—and that’s not even taking their ancestors into mind, assuming the Milishials are correct in their theories.”
“So on top of this, we’re looking at yet another war in the near future as well? What’s our time frame, then?”
“We ran the numbers: if Runepolis’s estimates add up, the Ravernals might be coming back sometime during your term—or after your successor takes office.”
The Senator paused in surprise. “My term?”
“Don’t act so surprised, Kumari. I know Vincent went and had a chat with you right before he was assassinated, and I know that he’s seen you as a potential successor to me and him—personally, I think you’re even more of an idealist than Harling ever was, but if the old man thought that you’d make a good leader for Osea even after everything that’s happened…well, clearly he had a good reason for it. Who am I to judge, anyway?”
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Seeing Bartlett’s smirk, Kumari simply sighed as her previous expression of horror was quickly replaced with annoyance. “Barely a few hours after the worst attack on Osean soil in our history, and already we’ve gone straight into politics. What has our world come to?”
“When you end up in Bright Hill, you’ll quickly find that politics are very much intertwined with the outside world when it comes to matters such as these—even for a horrific disaster like the one before us, every single person in Elysia from Oured to Ragna’s going to take a look at what’s happening and see an opportunity for one thing or another: prestige, power, influence, conquest, you name it. That’s where you come in: we’ll need to come out of what’s coming with our nation intact and our reputation secure—and our future in the stars still available to those who still want it once everything is said and done.”
Suddenly feeling his age creeping up on him, the President stood up—making sure to protect the prized container inside his suit—and gave his successor a final look of determination, even as his features betrayed a weary and exhausted expression from his countless years of continuing the late Ambassador’s legacy.
“Harling’s death has made our situation in the New World clear and we’re going to have to change our plans accordingly, Senator Kumari—we must deal with Elysia’s problems ourselves, or Elysia’s problems will inevitably come to deal with us.”
Ragna, Gra Valkas Empire — March 1, 2020
Upon hearing word of the Grade Alastar’s imminent return, preparations were made in Ragna to celebrate the arrival of the Crown Prince and the Empire’s most prestigious fleet—crowds flocked the harbour in the thousands, all in hopes of seeing the ships that demonstrated the might of their beloved nation and the young man who would soon lead them to their destined future of glory. Yet as the Gra Valkan fleet approached, the cheers and music began to distinctly die down as the horrific damage dealt to the prestigious ships by their unknown assailants began to be apparent to everyone present.
The Grade Alastar itself, the shining pearl of the Gra Valkas Empire, was but a twisted and scarred shadow of its former self—the entire front half had somehow been warped and bent by a singular projectile and almost every single gun battery in close proximity either critically damaged or utterly destroyed altogether. The fires that had raged throughout the ship had long since been put out and the remaining soot and smoke diligently scrubbed off by the crew, but the devastation dealt to the battleship was all too clear—even the other ships and the accompanying aircraft carriers had seen damage or losses, with several planes missing from the decks and telltale scratches and scars where sea monsters had rampaged with near-impunity. From the docks, Gra Lux himself stared at the sobering display with a mixture of shock and disbelief—even with his limited knowledge, he knew that the damage to both the fleet and the image of the Empire would take an untold amount of time to be repaired.
Rushing forward with as much dignity as his position allowed, the Emperor approached his son with open arms, his expression a clear display of paternal worry as he embraced Cabal for the first time in months. “My son…we heard about the attack…are you…?”
“I’m fine,” Cabal replied, shrugging off his father’s concerns as he turned to look around at the surrounding city. “The rest of the crew will need to return to their families and the ships repaired—Father, we need to talk about what happened—”
“It can wait,” Gra Lux interrupted, instincts kicking in as he focused his attention on his son’s appearance—the young man’s imperial regalia as the Crown Prince was neat and freshly ironed, but the person wearing it felt distinctly older than what his father remembered. He looked up at Cabal’s face, noticing a faint scar running through his left cheek and into his forehead. “You got hurt in the battle, didn’t you? Have the doctors aboard the ships treated you well?”
“Nothing that a quick rest can’t heal, and the medics on the fleet have served admirably. Father, Gra Valkas needs the Osean Federation as our ally,” Cabal urged the Emperor, glancing towards the warped hull of the Grade Alastar—the greatest technological achievement of their civilization, yet a mere few degrees away from being struck down by an enemy whose abilities easily surpassed them. “If not for their help…I don’t think any of us would be here right now.”
Seeing the determined look on his son’s face, Gra Lux reluctantly nodded. “Let’s talk about this matter with Director Gesta inside the Palace.”
Runepolis, Holy Milishial Empire — February 6, 2020
In the press room of Albion Castle, reporters, nobles, and diplomats from throughout the First and Second Civilization Areas sat before the podium in anticipation of an unexpected announcement from Emperor Milishial himself—many assumed that his remarks would likely be in response to the unexpected attack on Selatapura and the now-confirmed news that Ambassador Vincent Harling himself had been assassinated. Other rumours were also spreading throughout Elysia like wildfire of unknown powers at work as details of core magic being used on the Space Elevator itself continued to circulate, causing panic to spread as fear of the dreaded Ancient Sorcerous Empire’s return made an unexpected resurgence—surely the words of the Emperor himself would provide guidance for Elysia in these uncertain times…
As Emperor Milishial entered the room and approached the podium, the countless individuals present rose to their feet in respect to the man who had helped guide the most powerful magical nation of Elysia throughout the centuries. The elf gestured at his subjects and guests to sit down as he stood before the podium, subtly clearing his voice before speaking to his audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen, greetings and thank you for your attention. Under normal circumstances, the responsibility for conveying the concerns and interests of the Holy Milishial Empire to the rest of Elysia would fall to the honorable Minister Phiam; however, in light of the unprecedented events that have befallen our world at large and our partners in the Third Civilization Area in particular, I believe that I would be remiss in my duties as Emperor not to directly address the situation at hand.”
Milishial’s eyes glanced towards the Osean ambassador, who was seated beside a reporter from the Milishial News Network’s Osean counterparts—a private message of condolences had already been conveyed to Oured, along with an offer to provide humanitarian assistance to Selatapura in the form of healers and elite mages trained in core magic. This public address, on the other hand, was meant for Elysia at large—not just for President Bartlett and his officials in Bright Hill and the Assembly of Nations, but for the people they represented and the countless more populations and civilisations throughout the New World that saw the two superpowers as the harbingers of peace and order from Paganda to Calamique to Silkark.
“You will have undoubtedly heard from the Osean Federation of the devastating attacks that was dealt to their country, of the death of their esteemed Ambassador Vincent Harling at hands of yet unknown foes that attempted to strike down their gateway to the skies. You may have also heard of tales that weapons from the dreaded days of the Ancient Sorcerous Empire were wielded with impunity in a brazen play to defeat the forces of the International United Nations. With the full confidence of the Empire’s researchers and analysts on my side, I can say this: all of these tales are true—core magic from the Sorcerers themselves was used against our newfound partners not once, but twice.”
Gasps broke out as the diplomats and reporters themselves paled in horror and burst into panicked murmurs. Milishial gestured once more at the crowd, calling for silence before continuing.
“However, the Ancient Sorcerous Empire itself has not returned—we have been in close communication with the Emor Kingdom since the first reports of Sorcerous weaponry being used in Osea reached our ears, and our brightest mages have since confirmed that the dread Empire has yet to resurface. Even as we recoil in horror at the destruction and chaos dealt by those who would seek to destroy our friends and allies, the Holy Milishial Empire and its partners can rest assured that whoever may be responsible are but mere shadows seeking to drag us back to the dark atrocities of an ancient past.
“But this is not a time for lowering our guard,” the Emperor warned, facing the crowd with a frown of disapproval, “nor is it a time to take our fragile peace for granted—the Ancient Sorcerous Empire has yet to return, but its legacy still echoes throughout our world and its hidden disciples still seek to destroy the order that we have established in their wake. The arrival of Osea and Gra Valkas and their impact on our world in the months since their arrival both serve as a fitting reminder that the accord we share with all of Elysia is maintained only through the diligence and vigilance of those who seek to preserve it—and the Holy Milishial Empire, the shining pearl of the races and the vanguard of civilisation itself, now calls upon its partners across the world to join us in our efforts to do so!”
Part of Milishial felt a tang of guilt for taking advantage of the Oseans’ plight for his people’s gain, but he knew that his actions would both help preserve the image of the Holy Milishial Empire for the immediate future and help consolidate Elysia as a whole in preparation for the Sorcerers themselves. As to how the rest of the world would react in the years to come, even an Emperor as wise and long-lived as he could only imagine; yet even as he spoke, he could sense the world changing before him as alliances shifted and a new era unfolded—one where the Milishials would now share the stage with superpowers that equalled them in strength and power. A defining moment in the history of the New World—and yet another for him to witness and shape in his long and storied rule as the acclaimed leader of Elysian civilization itself.
“Our bonds may be tested and strained by those who would subvert our offers of friendship, but we shall persevere—and the nations of the New World under the Elysian Defense Initiative shall emerge as victorious above all!”
Selatapura, Osean Federation — February 20, 2020
Vincent Harling’s funeral service was held in a special ceremony at the very base of the Space Elevator, and was attended by leaders from throughout Osea’s political spectrum—even in spite of his strongly-held views and the controversial legacy left behind by his administration’s actions in both Osea and beyond, he was still highly respected by his peers for his dedication to his work and the devotion he gave to his ideals even in spite of all the obstacles to his goals.
The Elysian nations, too, would send their own delegations to attend the proceedings—Minister Phiam represented the Milishials and Prime Minister Sinclair and Ambassador Mugei the Muans, while Princess Lumies and Prime Minister Kaios attended on behalf of the Altaran and Parpaldian governments respectively. Even Directors Gesta and Ciella were present—the Crown Prince had expressed a desire to attend the service, but Emperor Gra Lux overruled his wishes pending the ongoing security risk; instead, the two diplomats would convey Gra Cabal’s condolences to the Osean government and attend on their superior’s behalf. Observing the many Elysians present, Ambassador Clarkson had a sneaking suspicion that many of the superpowers would have sent their own leaders if not for concern for their own safety—a sign of the damage that the Annorials had dealt to the Oseans’ image, and one that would need to be rectified soon.
For now, thousands of Oseans from throughout the country thronged the streets of Selatapura in open defiance of the enemy that had struck the city, easily outnumbering the Elysians present in the service as the nation as a whole sought to give their beloved former President a final goodbye. Clarkson could see Senator Kumari amongst the crowd, passing by the sealed device that held Harling’s artificial heart with a final nod before disappearing from his sight—probably to have a chat with President Bartlett or Director Ciella, both of whom previously appeared rather keen on meeting with her in person.
The eulogies from Harling’s closest associates and family members were each unique in the different images that they presented of the former President himself: a perfectionist, an idealist, a stubborn politician, a family man, an academic, a veteran, a survivor—the list seemingly went on as each person came and went. Some versions of Vincent were those that Clarkson himself was familiar with, while others were new to him even from his long career as one of Harling’s protégés—perhaps others would be more recognisable for the likes of Bartlett and his colleagues, the Ambassador reckoned.
At long last, the final person came forward to give his own story of what his predecessor had meant for him—Bartlett stepped forward to the podium, his eyes panning to the news cameras and surrounding crowds before speaking.
Before my career as a politician, I was a pilot.
I served the Osean Air Defense Force to protect my country against those that would bring it harm, to defeat our country’s foes in the skies like knights on the Round Table—but the Osea of that time was a different country, rather than one of science and exploration and peace amongst different worlds: it was one where power was wielded through war and subterfuge, where its neighbours were but future provinces to be annexed and integrated into our own.
And so it came that I served as a nugget in the Belkan War: a conflict that not only scarred our borders in nuclear fire but irreversibly changed our nation’s outlook towards war and peace as a whole—and so from its ashes came a young man by the name of Vincent Harling, who saw a world where our ambitions could be changed from petty squabbles with our neighbours, where we as a nation could become something more than what we were the day that 12,000 people died for our world’s descent into insanity.
Harling himself spoke often about how the War changed him and our Old World as a whole—and for the longest time, I never did actually believe him. Perhaps the scars of Belka’s fall still echoed in my mind; perhaps I still viewed his idealism as a veneer for the old Osea’s schemes and ambitions in a new world—and perhaps for many other people, that too was the case. Perhaps that was why I ended up in Sand Island when the Circum-Pacific War broke out—in my distrust of the people that brought our world to the brink of nuclear annihilation, I couldn’t envision a world like Vincent did where I could make a difference beyond shooting down enemies in the sky. My focus was no longer towards Osea as a whole, but the pilots I trained as they turned from nuggets to aces to legends—and as I helped them bring an end to the War, that, too, began to change.
It was roughly around the time that I left the OADF, shortly after the Circum-Pacific War, that Harling approached me about a career in politics. Of course I turned him down at first—why would I choose to become just like the madmen who got my pilots killed, whose actions resulted in the wholesale slaughter of Oseans, Belkans, Sapinese, and Ustioans alike over twenty-five years ago? But it was his counterargument that helped change my mind:
“Then don’t be like them. Be someone else, then.”
We can choose to be the people who we are, rather than let our pasts define our legacies—we can choose to let tragedy and loss harden our hearts to the pleas of those who seek our aid, or our mercy, or our friendship, or we can choose to be something else.
We can choose to be better, to be kinder, to be happier, to be more than those who would seek less of us—to be something greater tomorrow than how we view ourselves today. We can choose darkness and hatred, or we can choose peace and harmony—we can let the horrors of today drive us, let anger and hatred turn our message of coexistence into death and annihilation, or we can choose to be something more than even our greatest foes can even dream to become. We can choose to shed away the ancient vestiges of honour and glory in the name of our cultures and histories as the technologies and ideas of the future arrive—and together, we can choose to ascend beyond this earth and into the skies.
Vincent Harling’s life ended as it began—bathed in the fires of nuclear war—but he chose instead to let his work define his life beyond the dark and violent legacies of two different worlds. He chose to put away his anger at the universe around him and instead shape it into what he desired—and what he desired now exists before you: a world where nations stand amongst equals and our peoples, Elysian and Osean alike, will soon work to a future where the Lighthouse itself is but one of many across the planet, where ancient legends are but tales to be remembered and recorded and our civilisations dot the entire known universe like stars in the night sky.
I won’t try to mimic Harling’s prose or his words about peace and cooperation between nations—they speak for themselves, and deserve more qualified individuals rather than myself to repeat and expound upon. Instead, I would like to conclude with his own words about how he himself saw Osea and the world it existed in:
"We must let time shed light on the truth behind this conflict. In the meantime, the world has already begun to head down a new path. And this path shall go on, as long as the blaze of fire that shines through the darkness is not extinguished."
I’ve made the choice, the same choice I made that day I met Vincent Harling, to keep that fire alive—and someday, perhaps there won’t be a need for old pilots like me for that fire. When that day comes, I hope you choose to keep that fire alive, too.
On cue, a loudspeaker began to play a tune—the audio was harsh and grating as it echoed through the subpar equipment, but as the other speakers followed suit the millions of Oseans listening quickly recognised the song in question: a voice of a woman from a time long gone, her words a plea for a world of freedom and countless possibilities.
The journey begins
Starts from within
Things that I need to know
The song of the bird
Echoed in words
Flying for the need to fly
From the crowd, a voice joined the woman’s melody—a Belkan pilot whose age hinted at his long career in battle—and was quickly joined by many others throughout the crowd. As the Elysians present looked around in wonder, the entire harbour and the surrounding city soon echoed with thousands upon thousands of Oseans singing the words that helped end an eternal war many years ago. In every city in the entire Federation—Oured, Selatapura, November City, Bana City, Cranston, Shannon, Wadsworth, Mccord, Redmill, and beyond—
Thoughts endless in flight
Day turns to night
Questions you ask your soul
Which way do I go?
How fast is too slow?
The journey has its time, then ends.
For the briefest of moments, the people of Osea were no longer in Elysia, in an unknown universe with an uncertain future beyond death and destruction—they were back on their own world over a decade ago, bravely singing as one, in open defiance of the old and bitter people of the past and awaiting with eagerness and anticipation what brave new world lay beyond.
If a man can fly over an ocean
And no mountains can get in his way
Will he fly on forever
Searching for something to believe
From above I can see from the heavens
Down below I see the storm raging on
And somewhere in the answer
There is a hope to carry on
From the Lighthouse towards the distant horizon, five black Tomcats soared across the skies, a familiar yet mysterious mythological figure emblazoned on their rear wings. On a vessel within the heavens, hundreds of kilometers over Elysia, their owners watched their aircraft part the skies in their wake, the fifth shooting off into the distant sunset.
When I finally return
Things that I learn
Carry me back to home
The thoughts that I feed
Planting a seed
With time will begin to grow
The more that I try
The more that I fly
The answer in itself will be there
Observing the Lighthouse transport the heart of Ambassador Harling into outer space, Bartlett nodded to himself, a tight yet warm expression of approval as he bade his old friend a final farewell.
Fly on, Vincent. Fly on, you crazy madman.
Even as the sweepers began to clean up the emptied stands where Harling’s funeral had taken place, a singular DarkStar slowly made its way out of an isolated hangar at Tampines Airbase, its three-line markings on its rear wings indicating the pilot’s identity to the ground crew present. Soon entering the runway, the DarkStar’s engines burst to life as the hypersonic aircraft quickly reached the necessary speed to lift off in a matter of seconds—with a loud boom, Trigger soared into the skies where his wingmen awaited.
Above the site where the Annorial submarine had made its final stand, dozens of DarkStars flew in close five-man formations as the innumerable squadrons made their final preparations for the fateful mission that lay ahead. Seeing that all designated groups in Selatapura were ready, a signal from atop the Lighthouse was broadcast to all Osean forces throughout Elysia.
From an Osean air base in the Vestal Kingdom, a solitary Falken—featureless save for a solitary mathematical symbol—set off in unison with its companions thousands of kilometers away. Examining the countless callsigns on his display, Trigger’s eyes widened in recognition as he saw the pilot’s callsign.
“All callsigns, this is the Arkbird. High Command has issued all of you your respective targets—upon reaching the AO, you are cleared to engage. Eliminate and eradicate all hostiles at your discretion.”
