Reincarnated with the Country System

17-6-1561 WC

Northern Ocean

♦♦♦

The first wave of aircraft roared into the sky.

Engines screamed across the ocean winds as Bernard Empire's jets—F-35Bs and MiG-29Ks—rose from the carriers Akagi, Yorktown, and Alberto. Their target was clear: the Vosha, Indiana's Nagaratha-class carrier, the floating fortress whose Storm Invocation Tower had just darkened the sky.

If they destroyed that tower, Indiana would lose its ability to control the weather.

Bernardian Strike Force

"Sword-One to all wings. Target priority is the carrier Vosha. Secondary—flagship battleship and aerial command beasts. Maintain formation, call your kills, and don't waste ammo."

The voice of Wing Commander Leon Hartmann crackled across encrypted comms. Calm, clipped, precise.

"Sword-Two copies."

"Sword-Three copies."

"Dagger Flight locked on leader, awaiting vectors."

The jets banked into position, glinting silver against the darkening sky. Data links from orbital relays fed constant updates into their helmets—enemy altitude, estimated flight paths, weather interference. Every second counted.

....

On the other hand, a flock of Thunderbirds flew toward them from the Indiana side.

Each carried a rider—armored men with composite bows glowing faintly with enchantments. The birds shrieked, opening their beaks, and bolts of raw lightning spat downward.

"Break! Break! Break!"

The radio filled with shouts as the Bernardian squadrons split into evasive spirals. A streak of white fire cut past Sword-Two's canopy, the air ionizing with static.

Then the dogfight began.

Missiles streaked upward, contrails slicing through the sky. One locked onto a Thunderbird mid-roll—the bird shrieked, feathers exploding into ash as the rider was hurled flaming into the ocean.

Another jet ripped its cannons, 20mm rounds shredding a wyvern's chest. Blood misted in the air before the carcass spun into the sea.

But for every beast that fell, three more pressed in.

Thunderbirds twisted unnaturally, faster than any creature should be. Their maximum speed reached nearly 500 kilometers per hour, and with magical bursts they could dive even faster. They had stamina, brute force, and lightning that ignored radar locks.

"Bandit on my tail!"

"Fox-Two! Fox-Two!"

"Splash one Thunderbird!"

The radio was chaos.

A bolt of lightning smashed across Sword-Four's fuselage. The plane's systems went dead instantly, smoke trailing from its engine. The pilot cursed, pulling the ejection handle—parachute snapping open just before the burning wreck spiraled into the waves.

"Sword-Four down. Mark position for recovery. Keep formation tight, don't get dragged into duels."

Commander Hartmann's voice cut through the panic.

.....

While the dogfight raged, the ocean below flared with fire.

Indiana's Arcane Galleons and enchanted Ships of the Line lifted their runic cannons upward. Energy bolts screamed into the sky, streaking like miniature comets. One passed so close to Sword-Two that the canopy glass trembled from the shockwave.

Another beam caught a MiG on the underbelly. The craft lurched, its wing sheared half-off, and spun into a death spiral.

"Anti-air fire from below! They're blanketing the sky!"

"Copy. All wings, climb above cloud cover. Get out of their firing arcs."

Engines strained as the jets pulled high-G climbs, breaking through the thick black storm clouds conjured by Vosha. Turbulence rattled the frames, but one by one, the Bernard squadrons emerged into the lightless space above the storm.

Silence—then the world opened again.

However, here they saw another threat—Indiana Empire flying ships.

Three massive vessels hovered above the cloud line. These were Indiana's aerial warships—rare, costly, but devastating when deployed.

"Visual contact. Three airborne targets. Size class—frigate or larger."

One of the ships rotated broadside, cannons tracking. A glowing bolt fired, slamming past Sword-Seven's right wing. The jet spun violently, alarms shrieking.

"I'm hit! Losing hydraulics—"

The pilot's voice cut short as the aircraft nosedived into the clouds.

"Dagger Flight, target those airborne ships. Prioritize gun runs and missiles. Keep them off our carrier strike path."

"Roger, engaging."

The jets split into attack runs. Missiles screamed from underwing pylons, streaking toward the flying ships. Two detonated against magical shields, sparking across the ward. A third punched through—detonating against the deck and tearing a massive hole in its aft sails.

"Direct hit! One frigate's losing altitude!"

The flying warship tilted, flames licking from its hull as it began drifting downward into the storm.

But its sisters retaliated. Cannons boomed, bursts of enchanted flame tracking Bernard aircraft. One jet took a glancing hit across the tail, spiraling into an uncontrolled descent.

Inside Sword-One's cockpit, Commander Hartmann's breathing was steady despite the chaos. His HUD blinked with enemy markers, far too many red icons against the storm.

"Sword-One to squadron: keep altitude above the birds. Don't dogfight at their level. They want to drag us into a turning fight. Use speed, stay vertical, and strike from above."

"Copy, Sword-One. Going high."

"Fox-Two away."

"Splash! Target down."

Another pilot's voice cut in, strained.

"Sword-Three, bandit climbing fast—Thunderbird on me! He's throwing sparks, I can't—"

A burst of static swallowed his transmission. Seconds later, a plume of fire bloomed beneath the clouds.

"Sword-Three lost. Stay sharp, they're coordinated with their riders. The riders are using enchanted arrows—don't underestimate them."

From below, more Thunderbirds burst upward, lightning lashing out. Jets wove between the strikes, countermeasures spitting flares.

One missile streaked clean, slamming into a Thunderbird mid-flight. The beast exploded in a ball of feathers and flame.

Another jet tore through a dive, autocannons shredding a griffin's wings.

But the sky was too full.

For every beast killed, another replaced it.

....

Inside Vosha, the Storm Invocation Tower pulsed brighter. Mages worked frantically, pouring more energy into the runes, ready to launch another attack.

In Commander Hartmann's cockpit, the radio hissed again.

"Sword-One, this is Yorktown CIC. Be advised—the Storm Tower is charging again. You are weapons free. Neutralize at all costs."

Hartmann glanced once at his dwindling squadron markers. Fewer than two dozen jets remained combat-capable.

But the order was clear.

"Copy, Yorktown. All wings—new priority target. Storm Tower. Follow me down."

He rolled his jet, nose diving back through the black storm clouds, lightning flashing all around.

Behind him, the remnants of Bernard's strike force followed, engines howling as they plunged toward the glowing beacon on Vosha.