The drums of war echoed beyond the southern isles. Though the second great war had yet to erupt in full, the Asian Empire had already cast its gaze toward greater conquest. The south would fall, piece by piece. But now, the north became the priority — the frigid homeland of the Communist Federation.
Their objective was clear: tighten the noose. With fleets sailing from the north and east, the Empire aimed to cut off the Federation's supply lines and force them into defensive retreat. And to pave the way for the naval assault, the 300th Magical Aerial Squadron, including the ever-silent Itsumi, was dispatched to strike from above.
The air was sharp and biting as the squadron soared across frozen coasts and pine-laden mountains. Snow scattered through the skies like ashes, visibility was low, but to Itsumi, the cold meant nothing. Wrapped in his reinforced gear, he remained stone-faced and still. Orders came, targets marked — bunkers, outposts, supply routes. Within seconds, the silence of the sky would break with magical explosions and the roar of rifle fire.
Itsumi's precision was inhuman. He flew through flak bursts and enemy spells with terrifying calm, diving through storms of steel to strike from the shadows. The squadron began to speak of him in hushed tones. While others coordinated and communicated during battle, Itsumi barely spoke. He simply vanished into the white, and enemies died.
Sometimes, he would descend into enemy formations alone, a single figure weaving between gunfire and magic. He struck like a ghost, vanishing into treelines or reappearing behind trenches. Entire squads would panic, believing they were ambushed by an elite task force. What they didn't know was that it was always just him.
And he did it with cold, mechanical cruelty. No hesitation. No mercy. His mind had adapted — or perhaps shut down — to survive. Even when cornered, he remained unreadable. When surrounded, he used their panic against them: dragging out the fight, shifting positions mid-battle, causing confusion, psychological strain. He had become more than a soldier. He was a haunting shadow, and the Federation began whispering rumors about "The Phantom of the North."
But despite the growing myth around him, Itsumi felt nothing. Not pride. Not purpose. Just snow, blood, and silence. He flew, he fought, he returned, and he waited for the next order. In his moments alone, he sharpened his bayonet and stared out over the frozen valleys, barely blinking as the wind howled past.
a report would arrive: enemy reinforcements en route. Armored trains, battalions, and aerial units were coming to retake the northern sector.
The squadron braced for war.
Itsumi stood by a pine tree, his face pale under the snow, weapon resting on his shoulder. His breath was slow and steady.
"If I have to kill them all again… I will."