Princess Eagle Samantha Burnheart, at your service. The west coast is annihilated.

We first made landfall near the city of Angeles in Novmexico. Among Merika’s holdings, this is among its largest cities in the west coast, second only to the Golden Port. Among the 121,000 residents, we have only accounted for under 2,000. The resistance that had formed stood no chance.

We remained there for two days to defeat the lingering demons. Marge’s magic missiles proved potent. Each device is a steel rod, about the thickness of a man’s arm, of a length enough to let it weigh a third of a man, and onto which a high density of magic inscriptions are enscribed. It is propelled by a controlled type of explosion magic, and then uses another, focused, explosion magic upon contact with a hard target.

Merely from my own person, I first found these weapons underwhelming. Even having previously spoken with one of the Japanese battleship captains who had witnessed Sir Grey’s own missiles, I could not understand how such a weak explosion could swat these hard-shelled demons from the skies.

I and my fellow dragon riders take to great pains to slice them in half with sword in one hand and melt their shells with fire with the other. Is it not almost a joke, at our expense, for such a simple device to show that we have been wasting our energies?

I cannot complain, however, when my own men praise it. Against medium-sized enemies of the washing machine-class, reports from the field indicate that one or two such missiles suffice. Even up to the large boulder-class, a massed barrage of missiles would weaken and eventually destroy it. Focused magic attacks of standard types seem to be sufficient for smaller enemies of the football-class up until the beach ball-class.

That these missiles can be produced and distributed by craftsmen to lower-class soldiers is already a significant strategic advantage. I truly cannot complain. Perhaps I must hone my skill and outdo Marge once more.

Not all is well, however. Fastball-class suicider enemies have incurred the most casualties among our forces. They are weak, yet impossible to hit for the normal soldier. Area-effect magics are effective, but wasteful against the often-lone and well-hidden opponents. They will often zip and evade a squad’s attacks while another comes from another angle, exploding with various, inconsistent magics that nullify element-specific resistance armors.

Perhaps if it were His Majesty, the Emperor Hiiro, he would simply cut them before they even reached his sword—I still do not understand how he cuts things before they reach his sword, and this I have seen with mine own eyes. I will prefer witnessing rather than receiving his sword at any time.

Nevertheless, and in this regard alone, I hope that Marge uses her genius to come up with a defense against these Fastball demons.

Overall, despite incurring 87 fatalities, the operation to relieve Angeles was a success.

Unfortunately, we had to leave.

We left behind food for the few survivors left, but without a constant inflow of supplies by sea or land, they will not last. Some of the resistance forces—those with no family left—joined us. We weeded out the many who had little in the way of skill, and we were finally joined by 31 men and women.

It is little relief to the bereaved to simply bring replacements for the men we had lost. Even in that respect, our new reinforcements are few and remain as mere, unready potential.

Marge took interest in two of them—a husband and wife who produced explosive spellcores for the resistance. I could not see what had her so taken with them, as explosive spellcores in themselves were not so uncommonly produced by insurgents, but it is not my place to doubt her eyes.

***

We spent the last 2 months sailing the littorals, making sure not to go too far south as to infringe upon the waters of the Latin Defense Alliance.

Even until now—all we find is devastation.

Even if there were so much as a port town, I would order the wyvern scouts out—but the towns are empty and dust, without so much as a single survivor. The survivors we occasionally find cannot be said to be lucky, seeing as to the slaughter they must have witnessed.

The reports and constant badgering of commanders have left me famished. Then, perhaps I shall—Ah! Of course. I had permitted my maid’s and butler’s leaves. I cannot call for them. In fact, I am convinced that they are on a date and are now touring the ship. How enviable it is to take a stroll without a care in the world.

If I cannot call for tea and a meal, then I shall prowl Sir Grey’s halls once more.

To do it before, and to do it again—I leave my quarters and find the mess hall. Rather, I yearn to find Kirukiru-sensei. Rather, I yearn to find Kirukiru-sensei’s cooking.

There is a Japanese cook who, enraptured by the ship’s advanced and unknown cooking amenities, acquired the Emperor’s approval to stay with Sir Grey. I remain surprised that His Majesty so easily let go of his most favored cook—at least by what I could tell of his sad, sad eyes in that moment—but this is merely to my advantage.

I enter the mess hall. It is perpetually busy, and the men are ragged and drunk on good cooking. I can already smell some of that peculiar black sauce. Kirukiru-sensei, I know you are here.

There are orphans in the mess hall today, dining together with some of the wyvern riders, who are making exaggerated gestures as they tell stories from combat just the other day.

Hmm. The children are enamored by the stories and, perhaps, the wild appeal of the wyvern riders. Maybe that is how they keep recruitment up despite horrific mortality rates? What a morbid thought…

I approach the serving table. The men in line clear to my left and right. The stripped curtain to the kitchen-behind parts as a stout Japanese man, with red apron and white headband, upon both of which are written characters for “life” and “death”, walks through to meet me.

We are on either side of the serving table. His hair is greying, but I am told he is only 34 years old. There is something wrong with the Japanese.

“Kirukiru-sensei, something to heal the heart after a long day at work.”

“Wakarimashita.”

He disappears behind the curtain. I still do not know if he actually understands English, but so far, my intentions are one-way-or-another being conveyed. He later returns with a strawberry-patterned cloth bag containing what I suspect to be two bento boxes.

I receive the boxes with tears in my eyes. Thank you for the first-aid, sensei.

The mess hall is cramped, and I do not wish to cramp the atmosphere any further with my presence—to the Operations Room I am to go!

It is a natural choice. Lately, Sir Grey has been a welcoming conversational partner, and the quality of the furniture has been increasing with my every visit, and a particular corner has somehow become Japanese-themed—I swear on my name, it was not my doing. There are others, like Marge and Emperor Hiiro, who also pay their respects to Sir Grey there. It seems that they have been paying in furniture.

The Operations Room is somewhat lonely today. However, it only means that I have the coffee table to myself and my precious bento boxes.

{Officer on deck!—I’d normally say, but it’s just you, huh. What’s up, Sam?}

“You are a strange blend of formal during war planning, but suddenly drop all pretense when it is only me.”

{And Oreo.}

Sigh. “And Aureos, as well—may I take a seat?”

{Ya look like you should take the couch, honestly.}

“Then—the couch is mine to take.”

Comfortable furniture meets my whole body as I softly fall upon it just as a feather upon a kitten. I shall see to it that the White Castle is retrofitted with these once I dehorse father from the throne.

The bento boxes are on my stomach. They are still warm.

“What trying days…”

{Tell me about it…}

How curious. “You, too, Sir Grey?”

{It’s just bringing back some nasty memories, honestly.}

“… pray tell, how far do your memories span?”

{Y’know, I dunno. I really dunno. I was just part of the deck maintenance and suddenly I’m a fuckin’ aircraft carrier—hella wild, dude…}

I have always thought that Sir Grey was much closer to a person than a holy ship, although I admit that my first meeting with him had been riddled with more deference than I could imagine my present self to have.

As months went by, however, I had found myself plagued with a theory, that perhaps—he was merely a soul transplanted into this ship.

A spirit ship—that is what they call these ships who escape human understanding. They are, of course, ships, but they cannot be crewed nor controlled. They can, however, be reasoned with. Communication remains at a rudimentary level with most spirit ships—Sir Grey really is the first of his kind, one that could truly speak.

The more he speaks, the more I believe that he has a heart.

“What do you feel about the orphans? In the mess hall?” I probe him.

{I mean, beats being alone out there, right?}

“Does it not … hurt you in some way?”

{I guess it does? Never really was the kind of person to mope around about it, though. If I can do something, I’d do it. If I can’t, then that’s that—make sense?}

What a simple person.

Sitting up and placing the bento boxes on the coffee table, I unwrap my heart’s medipack. I uncover the boxes and—oh what glee it is to be presented with such cute and edible flowers and animals!

{The weeb ain’t hiding, huh…}