Season 3 chapter 56
The Iron Overkill
The sky above the Southern Ocean turned into a boiling expanse of white exhaust and jagged orange shrapnel.
On the shattered command deck of the Zumavian flagship, the unhinged Commander barely had time to raise his sidearm toward the clouds. A highly advanced Arvonian interceptor screamed overhead, dropping a heavy, precision-guided air-to-surface missile directly onto the bridge.
KRA-BLAM!
The kinetic force instantly vaporized the upper platform, liquidating the Zumavian Commander in a blinding flash of pulverized steel. Without its leadership, the flagship violently buckled, heavy internal fires cooking off its remaining munition reserves.
Absolute, chaotic panic seized the surviving Zumavian armada. With their systems entirely dead and their hulls taking catastrophic broadsides from the surrounding Arvonian stealth destroyers, discipline completely dissolved. Hundreds of screaming Zumavian soldiers abandoned their artillery levers, scrambling over the burning bulkheads to throw themselves into the freezing, pitch-black water just to escape the relentless inferno.
Dozens of desperate Zumavian gunners unleashed blind, frantic volleys directly toward the DI'an frigates before abandoning their posts, their heavy rounds shattering the outer railings and actively wounding several DI'an soldiers in the ensuing chaos.
But the Arvonian vanguard offered zero mercy. Heavily armored marines lined the lower deployment railings of their approaching destroyers, racking the massive iron bolts of their custom-machined heavy machine guns.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
A merciless, concentrated wall of lead aggressively swept across the churning waves. The freezing water rapidly turned dark with blood as fleeing Zumavian troops were systematically neutralized or left to drown in the heavy swell.
The lopsided, hyper-lethal bombardment dragged on for hours. Only when the sky began to bleed with the pale light of dawn did the shattered, smoking remnants of the Zumavian carriers finally hoist tattered white flags of unconditional surrender from their sinking masts.
Seeing the surrender confirmed, the Arvonian flagship fired a single bright green flare into the morning mist. The heavy machine guns instantly ceased. The churning sea fell deathly quiet, save for the groaning of sinking iron.
The Nonchalant Interrogation
Inside the fragile glass bridge of the DNV 36, the DI'an Commander stood entirely frozen. His hands gripped the plotting table so hard his knuckles were stark white, his uniform still soaked in stale sweat. His brain completely short-circuited as he stared out at the absolute graveyard of the Zumavian fleet. He was entirely unable to process the variables. How did an elite foreign armada ghost into their dead-zone sector at the exact millisecond of their execution?
Beside him, the DI'an Vice-Captain lazily dusted off his coat lapels. Completely unhinged and acting as if he had just finished watching a mildly entertaining theatrical performance, he picked up the bridge's main hailing mic, switching the frequency to the open Arvonian overwatch channel.
"Arvonian command, hey," the Vice-Captain drawled smoothly, his tone entirely relaxed and conversational. "Thank you guys for saving our lives out there. It was a really kind act of yours. Top-tier timing."
Across the heavy radio deck, the crisp, commanding voice of the Arvonian vanguard leader broadcasted back through the static.
"Yeah, sure. Welcome for that, DI'an frigate. Status confirmed."
The Vice-Captain leaned his hip against the console, completely dropping all formal military tact.
"So, let's analyze the elephant in the room," the Vice-Captain asked bluntly. "How did you guys even get to know that we were stuck out here in the middle of a highly lethal conflict? Our radios were completely slashed from the inside."
A brief pause hung over the frequency.
"Long story short, kid," the Arvonian Commander replied flatly. "I will tell you later on. But first, we need to authorize a massive rescue and salvage operation right now. A lot of logistical parameters are required to happen. Stand by for physical deck transfer. I am coming over to discuss your parameters."
The Boarding & The Escort
(Note on Transfer Mechanics: The Arvonian vessel fired a high-tension pneumatic zipline rope that anchored magnetically to the DI'an frigate's primary hull, allowing heavily armored personnel to rapidly traverse the heavy ocean swell).
THWACK—ZZZZZZZZT!
The heavy steel wire pulled taut against the DNV 36 railing. Seconds later, the Arvonian Commander detached his harness, stepping down onto the salt-stained deck. His dark, reinforced military coat was immaculate, exuding the absolute authority of a highly superior global power.
The sweating DI'an Commander rushed out of the bridge, instantly snapping a sharp, desperate salute alongside his exhausted deckhands.
"Welcome aboard, sir!" the DI'an Commander greeted breathlessly, aggressively extending his hand. The Arvonian Commander accepted the handshake firmly as they exchanged formal military salutations. "We are incredibly grateful. We were entirely out of options. How did your fleet track us?"
"We simply picked up a highly faint, anomalous distress echo bouncing through the local cloud layer," the Arvonian Commander lied smoothly, keeping his real corporate syndicate directives entirely hidden. "We altered our trajectory and arrived here just in time to clear the sector."
The Arvonian officer adjusted his heavy gloves, looking across the battered patrol boat.
"Well, for now, as we don't have enough operational time to linger, we have established your parameters," the Arvonian Commander instructed strictly. "Four of our heavy stealth destroyers will officially be escorting your two frigates back to your mainland waters. The rest of our fleet will secure the Zumavian wreckage and continue our deployment toward the western sectors."
The DI'an Commander nodded rapidly, pure relief washing away his remaining stress. "Absolutely, sir! We entirely agree to those parameters!"
The ANV 701
While the commanding officers finalized the navigational routing, specialized Arvonian medical skiffs pulled alongside the hulls, methodically tossing heavy crates of bandages, antiseptics, and rations onto the deck to treat the wounded DI'an soldiers who had taken shrapnel during the firefight, alongside the captured Zumavian troops.
Near the aft railing, a young DI'an deckhand was wrapping fresh gauze around a bleeding shrapnel wound on his arm. He kept glancing nervously past the four assigned escort destroyers, fixated on the absolute monster of a warship idling quietly in the distant fog.
"Hey," the wounded soldier whispered to a senior DI'an gunner standing beside him. "Why are our officers talking so much about that specific supercarrier idling behind the line? It's just a flagship."
The senior gunner stopped wiping grease off his rifle, turning to stare at the junior soldier in pure, unfiltered awe.
"Bro, are you completely blind?" the senior gunner hissed under his breath. "You don't recognize the chassis? That is the ANV 701—the primary Arvonian Naval Vessel. It is statistically the absolute most dangerous warship on the planet."
The young soldier squinted through the ocean mist, his breath catching as the massive black silhouette shifted against the horizon.
"That is a super-long aircraft carrier," the knowledgeable gunner explained, his voice trembling with genuine dread. "It is officially recognized as the world's largest operational carrier. It has a verified length of approximately 700 meters from bow to stern. Solid iron armor. It can launch thousands of tactical payloads per minute without its internal gears ever overheating."
The junior soldier stood entirely paralyzed. A 700-meter leviathan defied every traditional law of marine engineering. It wasn't just a warship; it was an insurmountable, floating fortress of pure industrial overkill.
Securing his agreements, the Arvonian Commander offered a final, curt nod to the DI'an bridge crew. He smoothly hooked his frame back into the high-tension zipline rope, launching himself back across the crashing waves toward his command vessel.
Engines hummed deep beneath the water as the massive Arvonian armada systematically split into two distinct factions—four heavy stealth destroyers turning their iron prows toward the DI'an mainland to directly escort the battered DI frigates home, while the towering shadow of the ANV 701 and the remainder of the fleet dragged the burning Zumavian prizes into the western fog.
The Shadow Overwatch
Deep inside the heavily shielded command deck of the primary Arvonian flagship, the Arvonian Fleet Commander stood over a secure, glowing short-wave transponder. He aggressively cranked the frequency dial, locking in a deeply encrypted, unlisted frequency that bypassed all standard military channels.
Static hissed quietly over the brass receiver before connecting with a solid, heavy click.
"15th Fleet reporting, sir," the Commander spoke firmly into the mic, gripping the brass edges of the console. "Mission accomplished, sir. The southern dead-zone is entirely cleared."
Across the encrypted frequency, sitting inside a highly secure, off-the-grid safehouse hundreds of miles away, a mysterious guy leaned forward and pressed the receiver to his ear. His voice came through the speaker entirely cold, authoritative, and perfectly steady.
"It is great to know that you have completed your mission without any imperfection," the mysterious guy broadcasted back smoothly. "How many casualties from our side?"
"Sir, there are currently zero casualties," the Commander reported with absolute, factual pride. "Our parameters held perfectly. We have captured approximately thirty Zed ships along with two hundred surviving personnel."
"It is great to know that," the mysterious guy replied, a faint trace of cold satisfaction bleeding through the line. "So, yeah, it is great. You did your task really well."
The Commander paused, glancing back through the heavy steel doors of his bridge toward the lower decks. His hardened military discipline dropped for a second, replaced by sheer, disgusted frustration.
"Sir, actually, about this thing... regarding these two hundred captured personnel," the Commander grumbled, lowering his voice into a harsh, ruthless tone. "Can I officially get authorization to make them scrub the lower bilges with their bare hands, or just dump half of them overboard? When our stealth fleet dropped the perimeter and opened point-blank fire, these pathetic bastards literally shit their pants in pure terror before raising the white flags. I am not exaggerating, sir. The entire lower holding deck smells like a literal open sewer right now. It is completely sticking to the fresh interior iron paint, and my deckhands are actively gagging. We are elite operators, sir, not glorified sanitation workers hauling two hundred soiled idiots across the water."
Across the line, a heavy, deeply desensitized sigh rattled the transponder speaker.
"Are you completely out of your mind?" the mysterious guy deadpanned coldly, entirely unamused by the gross physical reality of the lower decks. "You just commanded an absolute industrial overkill, and you are calling my secure line to complain about the literal smell of human terror? Take the high-pressure industrial saltwater hoses, hose the entire pack of them down like animals, and shut your mouth. Command, out."
CLICK. Inside the dimly lit, soundproofed room of the safehouse, the mysterious guy set the heavy brass receiver back into its cradle, aggressively rubbing his face to fight off the exhaustion.
Sitting directly across from him, lounging casually in a plush leather armchair while tossing a custom-machined bullet in the air, another shadowy figure let out a low, dark chuckle.
"I think so," the second figure remarked smoothly, catching the brass casing perfectly in his palm. "Our plan succeeded. We literally went on the right time. If that vanguard strike was literally one microsecond late, it would be really, really lethal for the DI'an army."
The second figure stood up, stepping into the dim overhead light to look down at the sprawling tactical maps covering the table.
"Adion," the figure instructed quietly, shifting his gaze directly to the man sitting at the transponder desk. "I think so you should inform this to Mr. Asphalt and Muntari."
Adion leaned back in his chair, his face dropping into an expression of pure, unfiltered exhaustion. He looked at the glowing communication dials, completely drained by the sheer weight of managing these unhinged assets.
"Yeah, yeah, I know that," Adion muttered bitterly, aggressively pulling a fresh encrypted transponder cable toward him. "Let us do this thing. I am just tired of this. I don't know how long will it go."
With a heavy, desensitized breath, Adion began dialing the direct sequence for the absolute heights of the syndicate, leaving the smoking, blood-stained wreckage of the civil war's naval front permanently behind them in the dark.