Murica First Fleet, HMS Bahamut Bridge
The Vandorians were right about one thing.
Murica had been bluffing.
They just had absolutely no idea why.
The elaborate "fear show" hadn't been intimidation—it was logistics. Monny wanted the Vandorian ships intact so Ravendawn could repurpose them as cargo vessels. Building proper infrastructure would take months. Captured ships, on the other hand, solved the problem immediately.
As a result, the Murican navy—long deprived of a proper slaughterfest—had been given very specific orders:
hold back and DO NOT obliterate everything.
Admiral Rusalka leaned against the bridge railing and sighed with theatrical exhaustion.
"Huft… Captain," she said, staring out at the distant enemy fleet, "did you hear they actually fired a MOAB yesterday?"
"Yes, ma'am," Captain Cetus replied crisply. "How fortunate for them."
Rusalka clicked her tongue.
"Sometimes I wonder why we had to be born water-type demons instead of land-type," she continued. "Don't you think it's actually racist that just because we're water-type, we automatically get shoved into the Navy?"
She turned, hands on hips.
"Do you think I should complain to the Pentagon HR department about this? I mean, discrimination is discrimination. Yeah… maybe I should."
Captain Cetus stared straight ahead.
The one-hour time limit felt like an eternity. Not because of the enemy. Because enduring his superior's uninterrupted rant and complaining required discipline that no naval academy had ever prepared him for.
Then the alarm chimed.
TING.
"One hour's up," Cetus said instantly, grateful beyond words. "Enemy status?"
"Sir," a sailor reported, "there's no white flag on the enemy ships, and they're still advancing."
The sailor hesitated.
"Uh… somehow they're moving at twenty-four knots. That's three times faster than their speed before."
Admiral Rusalka pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Huft… those idiots…!"
Cetus straightened sharply. "I'm terribly sorry, Admiral. I've already prepared the team on the deck below."
"Yeah, yeah," Rusalka waved him off. "It's not your fault, Captain. Orders are orders."
She let out another long sigh.
"But I already promised Stan that if this happens again, I'm going full tribal as the Siren Queen and kicking his ass."
She turned and walked toward the exit, shoulders heavy with reluctant responsibility.
"I'm heading down. You take care of the rest."
"Aye, ma'am," Cetus replied.
As the doors closed behind her, he exhaled softly.
"…finally."
---
Vandoria Demon Subjugation Fleet
Under Lorenzo's command, the entire fleet surged forward at reckless speed.
Ten mages per ship poured magic into the sails, blasting wind without pause. The violent gusts mimicked the force of a storm, driving the vessels far beyond their intended limits.
Dozens of sailors clung to reinforced ropes, muscles straining as they fought to keep the masts from tearing apart.
CRACK!
One mast failed.
It snapped violently, crushing men on deck before plunging into the sea.
"DO NOT STOP!" a captain roared. "MAGES, KEEP CASTING!"
A lookout screamed from above.
"ENEMIES INCOMING! EIGHT HELL DRAGONFLIES!"
Four Vipers. Two Venoms. Two Seahawks.
The Venoms carried massive loudspeakers beneath their frames.
"BALLISTAS! GET READY FOR BATTLES!"
The weapons fired.
The bolts fell far short.
"They're too far!" someone shouted.
Then—almost insultingly—the Venoms hovered directly above the very center of the fleet.
Perfectly unreachable.
Rusalka's voice blasted from the loudspeakers.
"Testing, testing… one–two. HEY, ASSHOLES! YOUR ONE HOUR IS UP AND YOU'RE STILL COMING?"
Admiral Lorenzo frowned slightly.
"…Are they provoking us again?" he murmured.
"FLEET COMMANDER! YOU'RE AN IDIOT!"
"H—Huh?"
"YOUR MOM IS AN IDIOT FOR GIVING BIRTH TO YOU, YOUR GRANDMA IS AN IDIOT FOR GIVING BIRTH TO YOUR MOM—ACTUALLY, YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY TREE IS FULL OF IDIOTS!"
Lorenzo stared upward, momentarily stunned.
For a fleeting, deeply confusing second, he wondered if the one commanding the most terrifying demon navy ever encountered was… a sixteen-year-old girl.
"NOW YOU'VE FORCED ME TO DO THIS—AND I HATE IT, FYI!"
Admiral Lorenzo did not understand a single thing.
"One… two… one-two-three-four—"
Music began to play.
A smooth, playful "Beyond The Sea" jazz melody drifted down over the fleet, carried effortlessly by the wind magic still roaring through the sails.
"…What is this?" someone whispered. "…Music?"
None of the Vandorians had ever heard the song before.
Then a clear, beautiful voice began to sing.
"SOMEWHERE UNDER THE SEA,
SOMEWHERE WAITING FOR ME…"
Hands froze mid-task.
Men stopped shouting.
Even the wind mages faltered.
"It's… beautiful…"
"It's beautiful…"
"She sounds like a goddess…"
"SOMEWHERE UNDER THE SEA,
SHE'S THERE WATCHING FOR ME~…"
One mage smiled faintly, eyes unfocused.
"…Someone beautiful is waiting for me down there…"
"H—Hey?!" another mage snapped, shaking him. "What are you two doing!? Keep casting the wind spell!"
The first mage took one step forward.
Then another.
Then he stepped off the ship entirely.
He plunged into the sea—straight into a waiting swarm of demon sharks.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" someone screamed.
Men began jumping overboard.
From ship to ship, bodies leapt into the water as fellow sailors grabbed at arms, ropes, anything—too late.
"S—SIR!" a captain yelled, panic breaking through his discipline. "Our men are jumping overboard!"
A female mage screamed, horror dawning in her eyes.
"IT'S THE SONG! IT'S AN ILLUSION ATTACK!"
---
Murica First Fleet, HMS Bahamut Music Studio
One of the interior cabins had been converted into a fully soundproof music studio, complete with polished wood panels, suspended microphones, velvet curtains, and a small but very professional-looking stage.
Inside, Admiral Rusalka performed with her band of sirens.
Reluctantly.
But professionally.
Her voice flowed smooth and controlled—silk woven from something far more dangerous than fabric. Every note precise. Every breath measured.
With her singing, any man with a weak mind would be effortlessly lured into walking straight off a ship and drowning himself in the ocean.
Meanwhile, men with stronger minds—
Well.
The outcome was the same.
It simply required greater volume and longer exposure.
Long ago, she had accepted Stan's offer to command Murica's Navy under one very specific condition: she would never again have to drown men the old-fashioned way.
Today, her country betrayed her.
She still hit the next note perfectly.
---
Vandoria Demon Subjugation Fleet
"WE'LL MEET BELOW THE SHORE~…"
Female mages scrambled across the decks, shouting orders as they cast sound barriers and dispel magic in desperate attempts to shield the sailors.
"Focus! Maintain the barrier!"
RATATATATAT—
Viper helicopters strafed the decks without mercy, cutting down any mage who attempted to counter the song.
Admiral Lorenzo pressed his palms hard against his ears, jaw clenched, every ounce of willpower resisting the melody that seeped into his mind anyway.
Around him, men continued leaping overboard.
One after another.
They vanished beneath thrashing red waves and circling fins.
Above, the Venoms hovered—untouchable. Unreachable. Unstoppable.
Inside one of them, the female co-pilot adjusted a dial.
"Volume up a bit," she said casually.
The music swelled.
"I KNOW BEYOND A DOUBT, AH! MY HEART~"
One by one, Lorenzo's sailors surrendered to the song.
"…Captain," Lorenzo said hoarsely, never removing his hands from his ears, "raise the white flag."
"Sir?"
"I would gladly die to protect our kingdom…"
Another body slipped over the railing.
"…but this?" His eyes followed the falling men. "This is meaningless…"
Finally, the white flag rose.
---
Murica First Fleet, HMS Behemoth Bridge
"…Captain, the enemies are raising white flags. They are surrendering."
"Turn off the music."
"Aye, sir."
A beat of silence followed as the melody cut out.
"And tell the admiral her performance was a success…"
The captain paused.
"…No. Belay that order."
He exhaled.
"Just bring her her favorite ice cream."
---
DMZ
Meanwhile, in the barren field where the battle around the gate had taken place yesterday, Murican soldiers methodically cleared the remains of the fight.
POWs were escorted toward waiting trucks. Heavy machinery scooped bodies off the ground and dumped them into containers for disposal.
Murica didn't like leaving its front door full of litter.
Two Abrams crewmen lounged atop their tank, boots dangling casually over the armor.
"I heard our navy's facing the Vandorian fleet today." The gunner said.
"Yeah," the tank loader replied, stretching. "Bet they're having as much fun as we did yesterday."
He nodded toward the prisoners being herded away.
"Where are they taking those POWs?"
"I dunno. Either to prisons or the processing plants."
"…Don't they need to be screened by the CDC first before we can eat them?"
"You're right. But I saw some of our guys got curious and ate one of the fresher-looking corpses."
The loader grimaced.
"Raw? Eww. Gross. Can't they just be a civilized demon? What age do they think we're living in?"
The tank commander popped up from the hatch.
"We're moving. Replacement tank's here. Let's go home and get some dinner."
He scanned the area. "Where's Morsov?"
"COMING."
Morsov climbed up from behind the tank, wiping his mouth. There was still blood on his lips.
"Ew, Morsov," the loader groaned. "Did you eat a human corpse? Disgusting."
"Heheh," Morsov said sheepishly. "Sorry. Just trying the ancestor way."
"Don't get poisoned and die, man," the gunner added. "You still owe me two hundred bucks."
"Jeez, this again?"
"Cut the chatter," the commander said. "Morsov, take us home."
Morsov slid into the driver's seat.
He didn't start the engine.
"…This again?" he muttered.
"…T-this… a-a-again?"
"Hey," the commander leaned closer. "Morsov?"
Morsov's body suddenly convulsed.
Muscle bulged. Bones cracked. His uniform tore apart as his frame grew violently larger.
"THIS!?" he howled. "AGAIN!? RRAAAAAGGH!"
Fangs burst from his jaw. Claws tore free from his hands.
"WHOAAA!"
"KYAAAA!"
The commander drew his pistol as the gunner and loader shrieked and clutched at him.
"W-What!? MORSOV, WHAT'S GOING ON WITH YOU!?"
They pressed against the commander like terrified children.
"MORSOV, CHILL, MAN!" the gunner screamed. "IS THIS BECAUSE OF THE TWO HUNDRED BUCKS!?"
"RRROAAAAAARRR!"
"AAAAAH! I'M SORRY! YOU CAN TAKE IT! YOU CAN TAKE IT!"
"You two…" the commander whispered urgently. "Slowly get out of here…"
The gunner and loader climbed out of the hatch as quietly and quickly as they could.
"Morsov…" the commander said, backing away. "Calm down. Calm down…"
"RRROAAAAAAARR!"
Morsov lunged.
The commander leapt out of the hatch just in time.
"RRRAAAARR!"
As Morsov tried to follow, heavy boots slammed into his head, kicking him back down. The hatch was slammed shut.
CLANK!
Morsov banged furiously from inside.
THUNK THUNK THUNK THUNK
Then—silence.
"Hufft… hufft… hufft…" the gunner gasped.
"MORSOV, YOU ASSHOLE! MONSTER OR NOT, YOU STILL OWE ME TWO HUNDRED BUCKS!"
Then—
RATATATATATATATATATATA
The crew turned toward the sound.
Across the DMZ, more figures—monsters just like Morsov—were rampaging toward the prisoners.
Murican soldiers opened fire, desperately forming a line to protect them.
"Jesus…" the commander whispered.
"What the hell is going on…?"