The wheels of war had begun to turn.
Cargo ships lined up in convoys, hauling container after container of resources into Windridge. There wasn't even time to redistribute them—mountains of shipping crates now clogged the port.
Windridge was to become the final fortress defending the land—and the location of the wartime command center.
Units of grim-faced soldiers arrived one after another. They were mainly tasked with guarding key strategic resources—no one expected them to play a meaningful role once the fighting against the Abyssal began.
Transcendents capable of wielding Corruption-based power were concentrating in Flower Capital instead. Their mission was to protect the homeland.
Meanwhile, shipgirls and their commanders were arriving at Windridge from every direction. A rough count put the number of combat-ready shipgirls now stationed there at over 100,000. However, cadets from the Academy—both shipgirls and their commanders—were mostly still too inexperienced to take part in a large-scale war. For now, they could only watch.
The city government hadn't issued any public announcements yet, but the people had already seen the signs—tension on the faces of passing commanders, signs of looming war. The more cautious among them had already secured passage inland with their families.
Though the surge in shipgirl and commander traffic had brought a brief economic boom, the shopkeepers' conversations were filled with gloom. No one wanted this kind of prosperity.
Everyone knew that defeating the Abyssal was all but impossible—at least in this century, or this generation.
In this war, humanity had always been on the back foot. At present, they were barely holding onto territory within 1,000 nautical miles of shore, plus a few vital intercontinental shipping lanes.
Humanity's war potential was limited. Take the example of Xia Nation—with a population of over a billion, it produced only about five thousand new commanders per year. After ten or twenty years of wartime attrition, only a fraction of those remained active and capable. Maybe one in ten could still be called the backbone of the fleet.
In contrast, the strength of the Abyssal remained unfathomable. Even a minor delaying action against them could warrant front-page headlines. Heroes like Saint George, who dared to take the fight directly to the Abyssal, were treated as legends across the globe.
Now, for the first time in over a decade, it seemed the Abyssal was preparing for a major offensive—and the entire world was holding its breath.
The tension continued for several days. At last, November arrived.
It was in this climate that Hikaru walked into Yamato's office.
The space had originally belonged to Yat Sen, the Academy Director. But the Academy itself had been requisitioned—now it served as the operational headquarters of the Eastern Hemisphere Naval Command.
A huge sea chart dominated the room, with staff officers clustered around it, engaged in intense discussion. Nearby, a handful of operators frantically answered the constant ringing of field phones.
The room was a chaotic mess. If Yat Sen saw it, she'd probably cry.
Yamato sat curled in an office chair, her shoes kicked off. She was holding a telegram, her face veiled by curling plumes of white smoke.
She was smoking a cigar.
Hikaru and Tirpitz walked up to her desk. Hikaru tapped the surface lightly. "So this is how you do paperwork?"
Ash flaked from the cigar as she flicked it. A thick layer of soot had already accumulated across the shiny tabletop.
Yamato exhaled a stream of smoke, her face finally emerging from the haze.
"I need your help, Hikaru."
Hikaru dragged over a chair and sat down. He pulled the listless Tirpitz into his lap and frowned. Choosing his words carefully, he said, "I'm just a first-year cadet. Strictly speaking, I have no obligation to sortie."
"This is an honor. A right." Yamato leaned forward, eyes bloodshot. "I'll give you something you can't refuse."
Hikaru absently stroked Tirpitz's soft stomach. "Let's hear it."
"Independent command authority."
Hikaru froze. Even his hand stopped moving.
He'd been hoping for some minor perks—not a massive chunk of power falling from the sky.
Independent command authority is the equivalent of establishing a private military fiefdom. It meant one could operate autonomously, free from central oversight.
Such authority was typically reserved for those who had earned so many commendations that no higher reward existed.
If a commander reached that rank, it meant his base had become so overwhelmingly powerful that it defied ordinary standards—and balancing such individuals with society at large became a political issue all its own.
(End of Chapter)
[+50 Power Stones = Extra Chapter]