Reincarnated with the Country System

Indiana side —

Aranya stood on the forward deck. Wind tore at his dark cloak, carrying sparks from the wreckage below. Many flying ships bled smoke, their rune-panels cracked and flickering. Others drifted in slow circles while engineers and spirit-priests worked to keep their levitation cores alive.

Aranya's copper pendant—shaped like a bird with wings of flame—hung heavy against his chest. He touched it once, a silent prayer to the gods of sky and storm. His face showed nothing: calm eyes, hair tied tight, beard trimmed as always.

"Sky Commander," his first officer said, bowing low. "Casualty count from the first assault. Thirty-three ships lost. Beast riders scattered. But the fleet stands."

Aranya nodded. "We hold the sky. That is enough."

The officer's jaw tightened. "Their iron birds cut faster than lightning. We struck many, but their numbers grow."

He felt the weight but let no sign reach his face.

Aranya turned toward the horizon. To the west, faint silver light marked the barrier wall that protected what remained of the sea fleet. Beyond it, the ocean stretched in endless smoke and fire.

He looked to the priests who kept the levitation runes bright. "Prepare the storm-cannon arrays. Feed the cores with double charge. If the spirits burn, they burn."

The priests bowed and hurried to obey.

A gust of hot wind struck the deck. Overhead, another Bernard missile climbed from a distant cruiser, its engine a line of white light. The nearest fortress, the Hansa, answered with a beam of blue fire. The missile exploded midair, a sunburst of smoke and sparks. Men cheered once, quickly silenced as a second and third missile rose behind it.

Aranya raised his hand. "Layer shields. Spiral formation."

The fleet shifted like a living thing. Fortresses moved into a great circle, runes flaring. The overlapping barriers formed a sphere of faint silver. Missiles struck the outer shell, explosions rolling across the magical skin. The shields trembled but held.

From below came the distant thunder of Bernard guns. Aranya watched the pattern of the flashes, the rhythm of the enemy. Their weapons were not like dwarven steam-cannons or the crystal rifles of the Helios Republic he knew. Those were faster, colder—precision like a blade honed by machines.

"Report," he said.

"Four barriers cracked but not broken," the officer answered. "Eastern wing requests reinforcement."

"Send the Vajra to cover them. Keep the circle tight."

He moved to the rail. Through a gap in the smoke he saw the enemy fighters rising again—sleek silver shapes, wings catching the sun. They climbed almost straight upward, faster than any beast could follow. He felt the wind of their passing even at this distance. They looked like the metal hawks of old legend, the ones said to carry the sky-gods themselves.

A memory stirred of a council meeting years ago, when traders from the west had spoken of the Dwarven Council State, the Magi Empire, and the Helios Republic—lands where men built weapons that thought like living minds. Indiana's priests had dismissed the stories as drunken boasts. Now Aranya wondered if those rumors had been warnings.

A sudden flash pulled him back. One of the enemy jets cut across the Ashvamedha's bow, close enough that he saw the pilot's helmet glint through the canopy. Blue runes on the deck flared and a storm-cannon fired. The beam grazed the jet's tail, sending it into a twisting climb trailing black smoke.

"Hit confirmed," shouted a gunner.

Aranya gave a single nod. "Do not chase. Hold the formation."

The next attack came from above. Three enemy jets dove in perfect formation, each dropping a stream of small, bright weapons. The sky filled with streaks of white. The shields shuddered as explosions hammered the barrier. Fragments of glowing metal rained across the decks. A rune-panel on the eastern fortress shattered, and the ship lurched downward until mages forced the core to burn hotter and steady its flight.

Aranya stepped to the command dais, voice deep but even. "Counterstrike. All lances—target their carrier group. Fire in sequence. Make the ocean burn."

Across the fleet, dozens of rune-lances tilted downward. Blue light gathered, humming like thunder held in a giant's fist. The first volley released—a storm of fire spears falling from the clouds. Below, Bernard cruisers and destroyers threw walls of missiles upward, but many lances cut through. One found the deck of a cruiser; the ship split in two, smoke pouring from its torn hull.

The fleet cheered. Aranya did not.

He watched the enemy response. They were quick—too quick. Jets darted in from the flanks, unleashing a second wave of missiles. One fortress took a direct hit on its port engine. Flames erupted. Men ran, carrying buckets and casting water spells, but the fire was a living thing. The ship tilted, groaning. Aranya raised his hand in silent salute as it fell through the clouds and into the sea.

A messenger came running. "Sky Commander, three more fortresses heavily damaged. Priests request permission to withdraw them to higher altitude."

"No," Aranya said. "We hold this height. If we climb, their iron birds will own the sea. We are the shield."

He drew a slow breath, tasting smoke and salt. Around him the decks trembled with each strike.

A young officer stumbled to him, face pale. "Commander, we cannot stop them forever."

Aranya's eyes stayed on the burning horizon, but a weight tightened in his chest. He knew the truth the officer did not. They had entered this battle believing sheer might would crush the Bernard fleet: six hundred ships, fifty-seven sky fortresses—enough, they thought, to drown any foe. The 28th Fleet was meant to pin the enemy from the front while the 6th Fleet swung wide to strike from behind—a perfect trap.

But the Bernard Empire had shattered that plan like glass. They had destroyed the 28th before the 6th could even turn. The "rear attack" was now a scattered force far to the south. Even if a call for help went out this instant, it would come too late.

"We are not meant to stop them forever," Aranya said at last, voice even though his heart felt heavier with each word. "We hold because the empire stands behind us. That is enough."

The officer straightened, saluted, and returned to his post, never seeing the brief flicker of doubt that crossed his commander's eyes.