1,000 Meters Above Moth Pole Prison
The prison alarms blared relentlessly below.
From the sky, two thick pillars of smoke could be seen rising from Moth Pole.
Hovering one thousand meters above the prison was a Dwargonian airship.
Unlike the standard brass-colored military vessels of Dwargonia, this one was painted black.
No insignia.
No national flag.
"Sir," the airship captain reported, "the prison mana-comm station and the military train have been eliminated."
"Good," the commander replied evenly. "With that, they will not be able to contact anyone outside the prison."
He stepped toward a nearby mana-comm station.
"Contact the Kirof."
The operator moved swiftly, hands working across the glowing interface.
"Kirof reporting," a voice answered through the channel.
The commander did not hesitate.
"Commence bombing."
"Acknowledged."
Moments later, shapes emerged from behind the clouds.
Ten Dwargonian airships descended in formation.
All black.
All unmarked.
These models were different from standard airships. They carried no large-caliber cannons—only several smaller anti-air weapons mounted along their sides.
They flew directly toward Moth Pole Prison.
---
Moth Pole Prison
The first explosions had already shattered order below.
Alarms screamed.
Prisoners shouted.
Guards scrambled.
"Hey—look! Airships!" one of the dwarf prisoners yelled, pointing upward.
Every face turned toward the sky.
Above them, the bombers opened the bay doors beneath their hulls.
Metal cylinders began rolling out in steady succession.
Ten bombers.
Carpet bombing pattern.
SHRIIIIILL—
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
The ground shook violently with each impact.
Stone walls cracked.
Dust and debris filled the air.
Moth Pole Prison was now a bombardment zone.
---
Bashington D.C., The Pentagon
Stan sat at the head of a long conference table.
Across from him were three of Murica's highest-ranking officers:
General Hanz of the Army.
Admiral Rusalka of the Navy.
General Fujin of the Air Force.
Since the Ravendawn–Dwargonia incident, both nations had been steadily amassing forces along their northeastern ocean border.
Murica's First Fleet was present as well—positioned two hundred kilometers behind the Ravendawn navy.
Close enough to intervene.
Far enough to avoid "looking aggressive."
"So our satellites have recorded significant activity at every Dwargonian military installation near both our border and Ravendawn's," an Air Force lieutenant reported, gesturing toward the large strategic display.
The map showed clusters of colored dots.
Several on Ravendawn waters.
Several on Murican waters.
Hundreds on Dwargonian waters.
Battleships.
Airships.
Formations layered in depth.
"They clearly outnumber both us and Ravendawn," General Hanz observed.
Stan leaned back slightly in his chair.
"Well," he said calmly, "they've been building that military for hundreds of years."
He tapped the map lightly.
"They are not short on manpower. And their natural resources alone could sustain full-scale production for the next millennium."
The room fell quiet.
The scale of the numbers on the screen did not require exaggeration.
Dwargonia was prepared.
"Do you think this will unfold like our war with Vandoria?" General Fujin asked.
Stan folded his hands on the table.
"I don't know, Fujin. Vandoria relied on unarmored infantry and wyverns. Dwargonia is different."
He glanced at the display again.
"Our intelligence indicates every Dwargonian vessel is heavily armored. Analysts describe their airships as flying battleships."
General Fujin frowned slightly.
"Hmm. I doubt my fighter squadrons can take one down with a single Sidewinder."
"Indeed," Stan replied calmly.
Admiral Rusalka exhaled sharply.
"Ugh… and my Second Fleet isn't operational yet."
General Hanz looked at her.
"Wasn't it scheduled to be ready soon?"
"Three more months," Rusalka answered. "But considering the developing situation, I've already ordered the manufacturers to accelerate production."
Knock. Knock.
The door opened.
An Air Force lieutenant stepped in quickly, posture rigid.
"Excuse me, I have something urgent to report."
"What is it?" Fujin asked.
The lieutenant moved to the conference monitor and connected his laptop.
"Our satellite captured new activity inside Dwargonian territory."
The screen flickered.
Then the footage appeared.
Moth Pole Prison.
Black airships.
Bombs falling in patterned succession.
Smoke rising.
The room fell silent as the recording continued.
"Oh," Fujin muttered. "Interesting. Their airships are capable of carpet bombing."
"What target is that?" Hanz asked.
"It's a Dwargonian mining prison called Moth Pole," the lieutenant explained. "At present, we have no confirmed reason for why they are bombing their own facility."
Stan leaned back slowly.
Then he smiled.
"Hahaha… I believe I know the reason."
The others turned toward him.
"There is currently one demon inside their territory," Stan continued, grin widening slightly, "who is dangerous enough to justify carpet bombing."
A brief pause.
"Our own Foreign Minister."
The room went completely quiet.
Stan then immediately stood.
"I will inform the Prime Minister."
He adjusted his coat.
"In the meantime, continue preparations for a potential conflict with Dwargonia."
"Yes, sir," General Hanz, Admiral Rusalka, and General Fujin replied in unison.
The footage of Moth Pole continued to burn silently on the screen.
---
The Black House
Inside the Prime Minister's office, Solo and Lilith sat across from Ambassador Hannya.
The atmosphere was formal.
Professional.
"So, Ambassador Hannya," Lilith began, hands folded neatly on the desk, "for the time being, you will serve as Acting Foreign Minister of Murica."
Hannya gave a precise nod.
"I will do my best, sir. Madam."
"The negotiation with Dwargonia will take place at the maritime border where Ravendawn, Murica, and Dwargonia meet," Lilith continued. "We will provide one of our civilian vessels as neutral ground."
Hannya nodded again, already processing logistics.
"I hope everything runs smoothly even without Levi," Solo added.
"Please don't worry, sir," Hannya replied flatly. "Minister Leviathan has never performed his duties personally. He delegates everything to his subordinates."
A brief pause.
"So in practice, nothing will change."
"Ah…" Solo blinked.
Kriiing. Kriiing.
Solo glanced at his phone.
"Yes?"
He stood and stepped slightly aside.
"Yes, connect me… Yes, Stan."
A short silence.
"Yes? … Oh really? … I see."
Another pause.
"Alright. Thank you for informing me."
He hung up and returned to his seat.
Lilith raised an eyebrow slightly.
"What is it?"
"Our satellites have identified what Stan believes is Levi's current location."
"Tch." Hannya click her tongue.
Solo and Lilith paused, looking at her.
"…Did you just say 'tch'?" Lilith asked.
"No, ma'am," Hannya replied flatly. "You must have misheard."
Solo continued as if nothing unusual had occurred.
"He is being held in a Dwargonian prison deep within their territory. But… thirty minutes ago, multiple Dwargonian airships conducted a bombing run on that prison."
"Yeay," Hannya said.
Solo and Lilith both looked at her again. But this time they chose not to comment.
It was no secret that after decades as Levi's assistant, Hannya's patience had… evolved.
"So," Solo continued carefully, "your primary responsibility during negotiations is to avoid giving Dwargonia any reason to attack us or Ravendawn."
"I will deliver my utmost performance, sir," Hannya replied.
"And," Solo added carefully, "try to negotiate for Levi's return."
Hannya's expression tightened just slightly.
"I cannot promise anything regarding that objective, sir."
Silence.
Solo sighed softly.
"Sigh…"
---
Moth Pole Pit
The aftermath of the carpet bombing left the Moth Pole Prison unrecognizable.
The once-imposing pit had become a jagged wasteland of overlapping craters. Stone walls were split open. Metal walkways twisted and half-melted. The central pole tower—symbol of absolute containment—had collapsed inward, broken like a snapped tooth jutting from scorched earth.
Smoke bled upward in thick, greasy columns.
Pockets of fire still burned across shattered platforms and torn reinforcement beams. The air reeked of burning oil, scorched stone, and cooked flesh.
Among the devastation, dozens of dazed survivors staggered through drifting ash. Some clutched broken limbs. Others dragged the wounded. Hundreds more—prisoners and guards alike—lay motionless across the blasted ground.
Clank.
Clank.
Clank.
From beneath the mountain of rubble where the central pole tower once stood, something struck from below.
Clank.
Clank.
CRAAASH!
A slab of stone burst outward.
A black boot punched through the debris, kicking aside shattered masonry and bent iron. More rubble shifted. Then a broad figure forced his way out from beneath the wreckage.
Director Cinderclaws emerged.
Large for a dwarf—nearly human-sized—he wore a red uniform now smeared black with soot and darkened further by blood. One sleeve hung torn. His face was cut. One eye swollen.
But none of that mattered.
He was standing.
And he was furious.
"GUAAARDS!"
His voice cracked across the ruined pit like artillery.
Surviving guards snapped toward the sound.
They rushed to him—some in battered steam armor, two spider tanks limping on damaged legs, and several dozen infantry dwarves coated in ash.
"Sir! Are you alright?" one guard asked, visor dented, voice shaking.
Cinderclaws spat dust and blood onto the ground.
"…Who the fuck blew up my prison?"
"W-we believe it was airships, sir," another guard stammered.
"Airships?" Cinderclaws repeated.
"Yes, sir. Dwargonian airships. They dropped hundreds of bombs." The guard pointed upward.
Cinderclaws followed the gesture.
Through drifting smoke, several black airships hovered above the pit's upper rim. Silent. Heavy. Watching.
Three began descending.
They halted several meters above the upper entrance, bay doors opening with mechanical precision.
Dozens of black steam-armored troops marched out in disciplined formation.
"T-they're deploying ground forces," one guard muttered, face pale beneath ash. "Are they going to kill us?"
"Sir, what do we do? There's no other exit—" another guard began.
"Of course there's no other exit," Cinderclaws snapped. "This is a damn prison."
He wiped soot from his face with the back of his hand.
"Call the military."
"S-sir… the mana-comm station was destroyed in the first barrage."
"Tch."
He lifted his head, voice steady despite the ruin surrounding him.
"ALRIGHT. LISTEN UP."
The guards straightened instantly.
"I don't know who these bastards are or why they're here."
His eyes fixed on the descending airships.
"But I know two things."
He raised one bloodied finger.
"One: They're coming down here to finish what they started."
A second finger.
"Two: ANYONE MAY ENTER THE MOTH POLE—BUT NO ONE LEAVES UNLESS I SAY SO."
"YES, SIR!" the guards roared back, fear replaced by discipline.