Three days later. The Eastern Border of Victoria, Warren Plains, a mere few dozen kilometers from the capital, Londinium.
The military forces of the seven great Dukes of Victoria had converged here, creating a spectacle of magnificent proportions. Eight colossal dreadnoughts stood like mountain ranges, their armor heavy and their turrets dense, exuding a sense of brutal, overwhelming power. Twenty-five assault ships and one hundred and ten gunships lined the two wings.
At the very forefront of the fleet was the flagship of the Duke of Wellington—the high-speed battleship Gastrell. Its hull was even more massive than the Duke of Kaest's Glory, and the gigantic main gun at its bow seemed capable of tearing through anything. One hundred and fifty thousand professional soldiers from the various ducal territories, clad in the uniforms of their respective regions, gathered into vast phalanxes. On their faces, there was only belief. They believed that the army of Victoria could not be defeated.
At the field airfield behind the assembly point lay Victoria's hastily assembled air force. Approximately three hundred "Stuka" dive bombers, rushed out from production lines provided by Columbia, sat quietly on the temporary runways. The performance parameters of these bombers were far inferior to Leithanien's new models; the rough rivets and brand-new paint on their fuselages all testified to the fact that they were products of desperate, last-minute manufacturing. But for Victoria at this moment, simply being able to fly was a success.
On the bridge of the Gastrell, the seven great Dukes were gathered together. The atmosphere was heavy, yet no longer as despairing as it had been three days prior. Such a massive gathering of military power had allowed them to regain some confidence.
"The consultants from Columbia suggest that we must seize air superiority first," a liaison officer reported.
"They believe we can imitate the tactics of the Leithaniens: first use our bomber formation to conduct a round of saturation bombing on Leithanien's vanguard armored units to disrupt their formation, and then our land fleet will press forward across the entire line."
"Imitate?" The Duke of Gododdin scoffed coldly.
"When has our Victoria ever needed to imitate others? Drive straight over there and use the main guns to blast them into fragments!"
"Gododdin, this is not the time to play the hero."
The Duke of Wellington interrupted him, turning his gaze toward the Duke of Windermere.
"What do you think?"
The Duke of Windermere, a Feline woman, analyzed with considerable rationality, "The lesson of Kaest is right before our eyes. Before we understand the details of the enemy's 'missiles,' it would be foolish to let our main battleships rashly enter their attack range. Using air power to probe and weaken the enemy first is currently the safest choice."
"But our pilots..." The Duke of Abercorn spoke with deep worry.
"Most of them have only received a few months of crash-course training. It's impressive enough that they can fly; can they really execute complex bombing missions?"
"There is no choice," the Duke of Wellington said with finality.
"This is the only card we can play. Order the air force: All units launch! Target: Leithanien vanguard troops! Tell those lads... the fate of Victoria rests on their shoulders!"
The order was given. Accompanied by the roar of engines, three hundred Victorian "Stuka" bombers taxied onto the runway one after another, then ascended into the sky.
Young pilot Ulysses Hornby gripped the control stick tightly, his palms slick with sweat. He was originally a reserve member of the Duke of Windermere's Sword Guard and had only sat inside this iron bird known as a "bomber" for the first time a few months ago. His instructor, a foul-mouthed Columbian, had only taught him how to take off, drop bombs, and land.
As for air combat? The instructor had merely patted him on the shoulder and said, "Kid, pray you don't run into Leithanien fighter jets in the sky. Otherwise, prepare to go to hell."
That Columbian was clearly very familiar with Leithanien's armaments; he did not have high hopes for Victoria seizing air superiority. But at this moment, looking at the massive coalition of Dukes below and the silhouette of Londinium in the distance, a surge of hot blood rushed to Ulysses's head. He was a warrior of Victoria. Protecting his home and defending his country was his heavenly duty.
"For Victoria!"
He shouted into the communicator, receiving a chaotic chorus of responses on the channel.
The massive bomber formation assembled in the air, forming a loose and disorganized formation as they flew toward the east. Below them, Victoria's land fleet also began to slowly activate, preparing to launch a general offensive once the air raid concluded.
However, the Leithanien armored cluster they expected did not appear. The horizon was empty.
"Command, this is Hurricane One. No enemy traces found. Requesting instructions," the lead plane reported in confusion.
The answer he received was not an order from the Duke of Wellington, but a piercing alarm.
"Alert! High altitude detection: large number of high-speed targets approaching!"
"It's enemy aircraft!"
"Enemy aircraft! I repeat, enemy aircraft!"
Ulysses jerked his head up, only to see a dense swarm of black dots appearing in the azure sky overhead. Those black dots enlarged at an astonishing speed, transforming into aircraft that were more streamlined and aggressive in shape than their Stukas, painted with the sickle and hammer insignia.
Leithanien's new-style air force: "Messerschmitt" fighter jets. Numbering over fifty.
Behind them, hundreds of Leithanien "Stuka B-type" bombers were climbing in altitude at a leisurely pace.
"My God..." Ulysses's throat went dry.
Victoria's bomber formation instantly fell into chaos. These clumsy bombers were equipped with pitiful self-defense machine guns only at the nose and tail; facing fighter jets born specifically for hunting, they were like a flock of sheep stumbling into a pack of wolves.
"Scatter! Free fire!" The lead plane screamed in despair.
But it was already too late. The Leithanien fighter group, like a giant net, rapidly segmented the Victorian fleet. A Leithanien ace pilot effortlessly caught a Victorian bomber in his sights, even having the leisure to whistle.
"Rookies, welcome to the real sky."
He pressed the cannon firing button. A deadly chain of rounds instantly slashed through the sky, tearing apart the tail wing of that Victorian bomber. The plane immediately lost control, tumbling through the air and dragging black smoke as it crashed toward the earth.
Ulysses saw a friendly plane to his right being surrounded by three Messerschmitts. The pilot frantically operated the tail machine gun turret, spewing tongues of fire in vain. But his bullets couldn't even touch the enemy's shadow. A few seconds later, that plane exploded in mid-air under a barrage of strikes, turning into a ball of fireworks.
Fear seized Ulysses's heart. Bombers simply could not contend with the opposing fighter jets in the sky!
He yanked the control stick violently, attempting a purely evasive maneuver. But his plane was too heavy, its reactions sluggish. A Messerschmitt, like a maggot attached to bone, bit firmly onto his six o'clock.
"Get away! Get away!"
Ulysses cursed as he desperately swayed the fuselage. He could clearly see the cannons on the enemy plane's wings flashing.
Da-da-da—
Bullets pierced his cockpit canopy, sending glass shards flying everywhere. A bullet grazed his cheek, drawing a trail of blood. The instrument panel burst into a string of sparks.
"Am I... am I going to die?"
The instinct to survive drove him to a final act of madness. He gave up fleeing and instead pointed the nose of his plane toward the armored units slowly advancing below. No! He could not die in vain like this!
"For Victoria!"
He used the last of his strength to shout this phrase into the communication channel. Then, piloting this burning iron bird, he rushed like a meteor toward that armored unit.
Boom—
On the bridge of the Gastrell, the Duke of Wellington and all the nobles watched the one-sided massacre in the sky through their binoculars, their faces ashen. One after another, Victorian warplanes dragged black smoke as they fell. It was raining black rain from the sky.
The air power they had placed such high hopes on was annihilated by the enemy with rotten-wood-breaking ease in less than twenty minutes.
"It's over..."
A Duke muttered to himself, collapsing into his chair.
The Duke of Wellington's body trembled slightly; it was not from fear, but from extreme anger. He remembered Kaest's battle report, but he had not expected reality to be even more cruel than the report. He had lost. He had lost the sky.
And having lost the cover of the sky, his massive land fleet became nothing more than meat on a chopping block.
Just then, that familiar shrieking sound, like the horn of the Grim Reaper, came from high altitude once again. Hundreds of Leithanien "Stuka B-type" bombers had completed their climb and were diving toward the Victorian fleet below.
The Duke of Wellington closed his eyes. The despair the Duke of Kaest had seen before her death—now, it was his turn to taste it.
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