Dawn New Port
Megan stood at the edge of the dock, watching Murican salvage ships and crews circle the wreck site with methodical precision. Cranes creaked. Winches whined. The sea itself seemed to be holding its breath.
She slipped a cigarette between her lips.
Paused.
Checked her pockets.
"…Tch."
A wrinkled finger tapped the end of the cigarette. A small flame bloomed to life.
"Ffuh… thanks, Archmage," Megan sighed, taking a drag. "Want one?"
Gregor shook his head. "Call me old-fashioned. I prefer my pipe."
He lit it with a controlled burst of magic and puffed contentedly.
They stood side by side as a siren in a wetsuit and a demonfolk in full scuba gear leapt from a RHIB and vanished beneath the waves.
"Hard to believe demons can dive like that," Gregor remarked.
"With the diving equipment, even humans can," Megan replied.
"Really? Fascinating. I've always wondered what the underwater world looks like."
"Heh," Megan said. "Definitely better than demon waters. Too many demon sharks."
They both chuckled, watching the bubbles trail upward.
"How was the hospital?" Megan asked.
"Your djinn extraction team finished retrieving memories from the survivors," Gregor said. "But nothing useful. They were all on the wrong side of the ship."
"I see…" Megan exhaled smoke slowly. "Then all that remains is the dead."
Behind them, rows of dwarven bodies lay zipped inside body bags. Three necromancers in BICH jackets knelt beside them, unzipping, placing glowing hands gently against dwarven foreheads, then moving on with grim efficiency.
"Your necromancy forensic methods are…" Gregor paused. "…innovative."
"It's efficient," Megan replied. "But exhausting. Thanks for the mana potions by the way."
"No trouble. But many bodies are still underwater."
"Yeah. We'll wait for the divers."
SPLAAAASH.
Suddenly a massive section of wreckage burst from the water, buoyed by heavy inflatables and shouted instructions.
"Finally!" Megan grinned. "They got a big one."
Gregor puffed his pipe, watching the steel emerge inch by inch. "You weren't exaggerating when you said you'd return the ship to the surface."
---
Langley, BICH Headquarters
Unlike the Pentagon's chaotic energy, Solo had designed BICH Headquarters to feel controlled. Secure. Subtle. Mildly ominous.
The kind of place where extremely competent people did extremely questionable things, calmly, efficiently, and with excellent documentation.
The analyst department buzzed softly. Dozens of BICH analysts sat before their stations as software quietly filtered every smartphone conversation within Ravendawn territory. Computers were banned abroad—but phones and televisions were allowed for purchase.
Mo had called them excellent intelligence devices.
And besides, good luck reverse-engineering a microchip without a computer.
Janet walked between cubicles following an analyst, tablet tucked under her arm. "What do you mean it's strange?"
The analyst sat to his cubicle and show his computer screen. "Here."
He opened a video file.
Black screen.
"He probably put his phone in his pocket," the analyst explained. "But listen."
He hit play.
"…Oh my goddess… they raised a ship from the seabed…" a man whispered.
Janet shrugged. "So? Everyone in Dawn reacts like that."
"Wait for it."
"…this is not good…" the recording continued.
Janet's expression changed.
She leaned closer to the monitor. "That's… not something a restaurant owner should say."
The analyst nodded. "Exactly. Phone registered to Alan Ridgewood. Forty-nine. Successful restaurant owner for twenty-two years."
Janet raised an eyebrow. "That's impressive. Especially for a Ravendawn citizen living under Vandoria occupation."
"Which means either he's very lucky," the analyst replied, "or very connected."
Janet straightened. "Send me the file. Dig deeper into this guy. Full background, finances, social ties. I'm reporting this to the old man."
"Understood."
Janet strode away without another word.
---
Moments later, Mo hung up the phone and humming softly to himself.
"…So," he mused, staring at the wall of monitors. "A restaurant owner worried about geopolitics."
A slow smirk spread across his face.
"Finally," he murmured, eyes glinting, "I've found your breadcrumb."
---
Hearthguard Cairn, Murica Embassy
Inside the four-storey stone building the Muricans had appropriated, reinforced, and officially reclassified as an embassy, Levi and Mara lounged in the study with the relaxed posture of people who had already accepted they were not going anywhere today.
Between them sat an open bottle of dwarven wine.
"So," Levi said, staring thoughtfully into his glass, "the Silverfist Clan handles heavy industry, Oakenbrew controls food production, and Axebreaker oversees the military?"
"And Sandbeard manages mining and finance," Mara replied smoothly. "Bluespire runs science and research."
Levi nodded. He rolled the wine around his glass once, twice.
"And each of those clans has dozens of sub-clans beneath them…"
"Yes, sir."
Levi took a slow sip.
"Huh." He leaned back. "So basically… the entire country is run by five megacorporations wearing beards."
"That is… one way to put it, sir." Mara replied.
"Fascinating."
Levi drank again.
Life underground had its limitations. No internet, no radio, no satellite phone reception.
"Other than learning about dwarven oligarchies," Levi asked casually, "is there anything fun to do here?"
"Drinking and partying," Mara replied flatly. "That's dwarven culture in a nutshell."
He swirled his own glass, then sighed.
"Under normal circumstances, I'd drag you out to see the city," he added. "But given the current political climate, a demon doing sightseeing would cause a minor riot."
"Heh. Shame," Levi said. "I really wanted to try driving one of their steam cars."
THUD.
The study door slammed open.
Three Marine Security Guard operatives stormed inside in practiced formation. Two immediately took positions by the windows, rifles raised. The detachment commander moved straight toward Levi and Mara.
"Excuse me, sirs," the commander said quickly. "We've got a situation. We're surrounded by the Dwargonian military."
Levi blinked.
"Huh? Has it been two weeks already?" he asked. "Hard to tell underground."
"No, sir," Mara replied without looking up. "You've only been here four days."
---
Embassy Entrance
The Marine Security Guard had taken what little defensive footing they could.
The embassy had no perimeter walls—just a reinforced front door that opened directly onto the street.
Three MSG operatives stood outside, weapons ready, facing down dozens of dwarven troops.
Each dwarf was encased in a hulking steam-armor exosuit, towering nearly twice the height of the demons. Brass-plated frames hissed and clanked as coal-powered hydraulics flexed, vents puffing steam with every movement.
"This is sovereign territory of the United Demon Kingdom of Murica," the MSG lead announced evenly. "Please pull your forces back."
A deep, metallic voice rumbled from one of the exosuits.
"I have orders from Grand Marshal Dwordoug Axebreaker," the dwarven commander said. "Minister Leviathan and Ambassador Mara are to be taken into custody on suspicion of planned aggression against Dwargonia."
"I cannot allow that," the MSG replied calmly. "Both officials have diplomatic immunity under the Murica-Dwargonia Agreement. If you have concerns, send investigators here and we will cooperate."
He lowered his rifle slightly—just enough to look polite.
"We want this handled peacefully. Nobody wants anyone getting hurt."
The dwarven commander stared at them through his armored visor for a long moment.
"…If this is peaceful," he said slowly, "why do you and your men look so excited?"
The MSG lead froze for half a heartbeat.
"Ah? No, no," he said quickly. "This is just our face. We're extremely anxious right now, haha…"
They absolutely could not admit they were thrilled for a chance to kill dwarves.
"Regardless," the commander grunted, "my orders stand. My men will not move until your minister and ambassador come with us."
"And my orders are to not hand them over."
With a heavy CLANG, additional steam-armor units climbed onto the rooftops surrounding the embassy, securing the high ground with methodical precision.
The MSG lead glanced upward. Then back at the dwarves.
"So," he said, a smirk creeping onto his face despite himself, "what's it gonna be?"
---
200 Nautical Miles East of Ravendawn
A Ravendawn sixty-four-gun patrol ship cut cleanly through the waves.
Once, it had flown the colors of Vandoria. Then Murica had captured it. Then Murica had sold it to Ravendawn—crew included.
Many of those former Vandorians had defected willingly, disgusted by the civil war that erupted between two arrogant princes. Their leader, Admiral Lorenzo, had been the first to switch sides.
Now their job was simple: protect international merchants passing through the canal from pirates and sea monsters.
Pirates, at least, had become a rare problem ever since Murica entered the picture.
Monsters were another story entirely.
With the goddess barrier gone, demonic sea creatures had begun wandering far beyond their usual habitats, apparently uninterested in respecting trade routes and borders.
On deck, a mix of ex-Vandorian sailors and Ravendawn beastman leaned against the railing, watching a gleaming dwarven merchant ship cruising along the horizon.
"Damn," said a wolf-beastman, squinting. "That thing looks like it's made of gold."
"It's brass," the ex-Vandorian replied. "The dwarves are rich, but not insane."
"I wonder which one's stronger," the wolf mused. "The Dwargonian ship or a Murican one."
"Brr…" The ex-Vandorian shuddered. "I still get chills when I remember fighting those demons… those songs."
"Oops," the wolf said. "Sorry. Didn't mean to trigger your PTSD."
"Nah… it's fine." The ex-Vandorian exhaled, then grinned and raised his fist. "At least I'm still alive now."
He pumped it once.
"Alive—and about to marry the cutest bunny girl on Talvaris! WOOOO!"
"HAHAHA!" the wolf laughed. "Never thought I'd see a Vandorian marrying a beastman."
"Ex-Vandorian," the man corrected. He squinted sideways. "What about you? When are you planning to stop being a horny dog?"
"Can't help it, bro," the wolf said proudly. "It's genetic."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes drifting toward the passing ship-mage.
"You still eyeing the new ship-mage?"
"She's a beauty, bro. Look at that ass."
They both watched as the ship-mage disappeared below deck.
"You dirty, horny dog."
"I've told you—it's genetic."
---
Below deck, the ship-mage moved quickly toward an empty cargo hold.
She knelt, drawing a precise magic circle across the floorboards, then gulped down a mana potion in one practiced motion. Her hands trembled just a little as she stepped into the center.
"…Alright…" she murmured, breathing slowly, forcing herself steady.
Then she raised her hands.
"Odea ospiritus, mihi potestatem da ut inimicos meos decipiam—potenti illusione!"
The circle flared to life.
Light flooded the cargo hold.
---
On deck, the entire crew swayed.
For a brief moment, everything felt wrong.
"Ugh…" the beastman muttered. "Kinda dizzy."
"Yeah… me too," the ex-Vandorian replied. Then he squinted. "Hey. Hey! Look at that!"
"What the—"
A Dwargonian destroyer loomed into view, closing fast.
Cannons were already aimed straight at them.
TING TING TING TING—
"DWARGONIAN DESTROYER! STARBOARD! CRUISING IN FAST!" the lookout screamed.
"MAN YOUR BATTLE STATIONS! MAN YOUR BATTLE STATIONS!" the captain roared. "Comm—try to reach the Dwargonian ship!"
"Aye, sir!"
The captain stared at the oncoming vessel, jaw tightening.
"…What the hell are they doing?"