ACT 1 – 03/14/1940 – 04:10 AM
The road linking the British Defense Line to the Front Lines
The convoy bounced along a road churned into mud and ruts. Dawn was still hours away, but the dim light revealed enough to see the fatigue etched into every soldier's face.
I sat slumped in the back of the armored truck, shoulders pressed against cold steel, staring at the floor. Around me, young men murmured prayers, stared blankly, or whispered to one another.
A boy at my age tapped my shoulder. His hands shook.
"H-Hey… do you think… we'll make it out alive?" His voice cracked. "My girlfriend… she was really scared when I left."
I stared at him, searching for words. The truth was sharp, bitter. "This isn't a patrol or a training exercise. It's war. If we don't fight, it's not just our country that falls—it's everyone we care about."
He flinched, staring at the floor, and shuffled away. I forced a smile, faint and bitter. Memories of my parents flashed—gone, like smoke in the wind.
The whir of engines broke the moment.
"Take cover!" I shouted.
Soldiers dove from the convoy, seeking what little shelter the terrain offered. But the sky opened with fire. Nazi planes roared overhead, tearing the air with machine guns. Screams erupted. Men fell instantly; others clutched wounds, crying out.
Pain lanced through me, searing, everywhere. Blood slicked my vision. My hands shook. And then black.
I blacked out just as a squad of enemy soldiers approached—not to finish us, but to take survivors prisoner.
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ACT 2 – 03/19/1940 – 07:30 AM
Nazi POW Camp – Holding Wards
Cold, damp, hard floor. I tried to stand. My body screamed.
'Damn… my wounds seems worse than I thought.'
Across the cellblock, a Russian soldier's eyes met mine—hard, judging.
"What are you staring at?" I spat.
He smirked. "I just don't see the great British pride."
Our standoff ended when footsteps echoed. A man in a white coat appeared, a disturbing smile on his face.
"Well, well… looks like you two are getting along."
Two guards dragged me into a blinding white lab. Metal chair. Straps dangling. Instruments lined a tray; vials shimmered.
"Sit," the man ordered. Straps bit into my wrists and chest.
"British steel, yes? Let's see how long it bends before it breaks."
A green liquid burned through my veins. Pain unlike anything I'd known. I screamed. He scribbled notes.
Months passed. Pain, starvation, freezing, burning. Others didn't survive. I stopped learning names. Survival became instinct. Until years later, the Sirens came.
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ACT 2.5 – The Sirens
They arrived without warning. Machines moved silently across oceans. Entire fleets vanished overnight. Coastal cities burned.
Former enemies became uneasy allies. Humanity's navies, once divided, trained to lead united fleets. Survival demanded obedience, courage, and strategy.
I had been erased from records, my existence top-secret. They hadn't succeeded. I survived—ready to become a commander.
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ACT 3 – 05/12/1947 – 08:30 AM
Naval Academy – Main Courtyard
The academy gates loomed. Each step echoed my past—labs, fire, survival. Others saw only a late recruit. I saw months of pain and training etched in my body.
Drills, lectures, evaluations. Every motion instinctive. By week's end, I earned wary respect. Survival wasn't enough. I would endure, adapt, rise.
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09/03/1951 – 07:15 PM
Naval Academy – Training Grounds
Four years of relentless drills, sleepless nights, evaluations. Pain and memory shaped me. Sirens weren't waiting. Attacks grew faster, fleets vanished. Humanity needed fast-thinking commanders.
I pushed harder. Dawn drills until lungs burned. Nights studying strategies until eyes blurred. Instructors noticed. Peers whispered—admiration, envy, fear.
By fourth year, I wasn't just excelling—I was indispensable. "Damian, your commission is approved," an instructor said quietly. "You'll graduate early. You're needed in the field."
I didn't celebrate. Survival was never enough. I was ready. I was a soldier, a leader, a commander.
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11/03/1951 – 09:45 PM
U.S. Navy Port – Docking Bay
Sun barely rose. Salt and diesel thick in the air. The warship to Azur Lane loomed.
A sleek black car arrived. The minister of Azur Lane stepped out, unreadable.
"Damian, thank you for coming on short notice," she said.
"Of course. Let's get straight to it. I need the situation before we reach your base."
Onboard, engines roared. Sailors moved with precise coordination. In a private cabin, she gestured to sit.
"The fleet is in bad shape," she said. "Morale low, discipline fractured. Shipgirls distrust male commanders—last two were abusive and incompetent. It's created deep resentment."
I nodded. "I need specifics."
She exhaled. "Their reckless decisions led to Amagi from the Sakura Empire being scrapped. Allied nations fractured. Iron Blood, Vichya Dominion, Sardegna Empire formed the Crimson Axis. They use Siren tech, claiming to fight Sirens, but endangering humanity."
"So," I said, "fleet fractured, girls hate male commanders, half of humanity's naval powers effectively working with the enemy?"
"That's correct. And Sirens are stronger than ever. We need a commander who can lead and regain trust."
I folded my arms. "I'll handle it. But I'll need full access to records and assignments. I won't repeat past mistakes."
She studied me, then nodded. "Remember, Damian… fleet traumatized, fractured, desperate. One wrong move, and it could get worse."
"I'm aware. I'll earn their trust—or I won't survive the next operation."
The ship's horn blared as we left the dock. I stared at the horizon. The fleet needed a commander. I wasn't about to fail.