The Abyssal shipgirl finished speaking, turned, and stepped onto the ink-dark sea. In a single bound she landed atop her rigging, found a comfortable sprawl, and let out a contented sigh with eyes half-closed.
Her rigging resembled a Jurassic-era marine predator—a pliosaur—though thinking of it as an overfed shark would do.
Mounted along the "pliosaur" hull were naval guns, torpedo tubes, depth-charge throwers, sonar, radar, and AA mounts—everything but a missile launcher.
To either side, two bird-shaped riggings circled in the air—her carrier aircraft.
On the island, her subordinate shipgirls glanced around, then copied her—lying prone on their own rigging.
Their faces and gear were nearly identical, differing only by the color tracing their bodies and hulls: the leader wore gold lines—five-star—and the other purple—four-star.
They were N-class Abyssal flagships: a Type I (Lv. 101) and a Type II (Lv. 148).
From the moment they arrived, the tens of thousands of nearby Abyssals fell completely still, as if frozen—none dared so much as twitch.
Back at the naval district, Hikaru's current summon had gone long.
Close to four hours already.
That all but guaranteed a powerful capital ship, and the shipgirls' confidence swelled.
Lexington's scouting wing reported that the northern Abyssal host had indeed pulled back to lick its wounds.
The naval district defense had won a phase victory—and a major one at that, having sunk half of the enemy's named Abyssal flagships.
Even without much personal tally, Lexington, Yat Sen, Fletcher and the others were all smiles.
Add in the arrivals—Moskva, Vittorio Veneto, Vestal, Z17, and likely more to come—and Lexington immediately decreed a celebratory feast.
And a proper reward for Hikaru, who'd been summoning like a madman.
Only Fletcher remained on close-in patrol to guard against prowling submarines; everyone else returned to rest and refit.
As for the Abyssal masses, nearly two hundred carrier planes kept them under tight watch.
In the mess hall, some cooked, some snuck bites, most simply chatted.
Only four—or five—looked out of place.
One was Yamato, who had signaled Naval HQ to investigate the "alert" previously sent in Hikaru's name. Warspite answered: no major change detected to the east—meaning the operation was still proceeding to plan.
That prompted Warspite to fire off more encrypted inquiries to Gorou, and left Yamato distracted.
Even Yat Sen's steaming golden egg fried rice went down without its usual joy.
The other four were the "Bar Squad."
Alaska and Saint George, both heavily damaged, had been carried into the dining hall to repair—repairs only required resources, not immobility, and good food lifted spirits and hastened recovery.
After all, leaving guests propped against a wall would be unseemly.
Even so, Alaska and Saint George were stiff with embarrassment.
Partly because Yamato kept shooting them wary, not-entirely-unsmug looks. Mostly because they knew they'd caused trouble for Hikaru's district and felt awful about it—shipgirls hate owing favors most of all.
Saint George had an extra dose of chagrin. She'd arrived vowing to ask Tirpitz "what 'Number One Under Heaven' really means."
Now she felt that if even Bismarck—like that Bismarck—wasn't a match for Tirpitz's younger sister, then with Tirpitz claiming second place, no shipgirl on earth had any business claiming first.
So Saint George sat awkward and faraway, mind spiraling around just how strong Tirpitz truly was, often answering only one of Lexington's five gentle questions.
Lexington kept smiling throughout. No one in their district had been lost—why greet would-be well-wishers with a scowl?
Besides—
Lexington's eyes drifted down to the dragon-slaying sword resting across Saint George's knees.
It was indeed a treasure blade: an edge like a dragon's bared fangs, with a red-and-white cross-shield guard that lent it a noble air.
Fitting, since Saint George bore the name of England's old patron saint. Her sword was no ordinary steel.
[End of Chapter]
[100 Power Stones = Extra Chapter]
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