Hijacking the Skies
While Kang Jin-cheol and the owl-masked girl rampaged among the ironclad soldiers, Lamien lay flat in the underbrush. There was no way she could charge forward into that mess. Bullets flew by the hundreds, thousands per minute, shredding entire buildings in their path. It was a battlefield where even a well-trained soldier would need a few screws loose in their head to run straight into those muzzles. And she wasn't some guerrilla fighter—she was a battle wing pilot. Lamien felt a deep sense of self-loathing about that fact.
One reason Jin-cheol was out there battling those ironclads was that they'd captured her lover. Of course, if she said as much, he'd brush it off: Hey, I was heading out to hunt those White Butchers anyway—might as well tag along and snag yours while we're at it. That's the kind of unflappable guy he'd been these past few days. But knowing his response didn't erase her shame.
She pinned back her ears and cautiously lifted her head. What she saw was Jin-cheol, drenched in blood and oil, tearing the ironclads apart like a feral beast. The beams shooting from his hand were like fangs and claws. Would Dol Jumeok have charged out alongside him right now to fight those ironclads? With him absent, there was no telling. In any case, Lamien—a mere Lavito—could do nothing but watch. Whether it was her species' limitations or her own personal failings, she felt utterly powerless.
Then, as she watched Jin-cheol fight, her eyes drifted to the airship on the far side of the enemy camp. Domichi—who'd since left for Solka-in—had said her lover and the other young Lavitos had been loaded aboard naked. "…"
There had to be something she could do. Lamien carefully rose, crouched low, and started running. Her small Lavito frame made her nearly invisible in the dark night.
*
Siol's AI—holy spirit or spirit to other races, but Jindallae to Jin-cheol—the entity that had gifted him the lightsaber embedded in his left forearm. He didn't fully understand its mechanics: how it worked, where the blade's energy came from, what would happen if the skin over the tattoo peeled off, or how long it would last. But hell, did anyone truly understand a smartphone's inner workings and code? Nah, they just used it. Same with the lightsaber—Jin-cheol just swung it.
Luckily, Jindallae's magic packed insane heat and light, melting the ironclads' armor clean through. Each glowing arc claimed one life, sometimes two at once. The lack of physical form meant no resistance when slicing foes, which was a double-edged sword—it felt like punching air. And in a way, it was.
Before long, ironclad corpses piled up around his feet. The ones who'd rushed out from deeper in the camp at the sound of gunfire couldn't shoot without hitting their own tangled up with Jin-cheol and the owl-masked girl. A few tried, but they became the duo's first targets.
The lightsaber was powerful but short-lived. Jin-cheol rolled, snatched up the fishing sword he'd thrown earlier, and stood. The blade dimmed, but both hands gripped the fishing sword now. The white edge thirsted for more blood. He was getting the hang of it: no more brute-forcing the thick armor plates—instead, precise cuts at the joints saved strength and reduced drag on the blade.
As Jin-cheol adapted quickly, the owl-masked girl mirrored him after watching. They became expert can-openers, popping heads, shoulders, and hips to disable the ironclads.
Realizing machine guns were useless, some ditched theirs for close combat. Hiss— Steam burst with fists slicing air, blades protruding from their forearms as bonuses. Surrounded, Jin-cheol couldn't dodge everything without some wuxia footwork. Damn, should've trained more with that doggy swordsman.
Still, he twisted his body to evade while stabbing their single eyes. Some reacted, but he'd anticipated that— a flick of the wrist silenced them with a short screech.
[Kraaak—!]
[Kek…]
After endless slashing, Jin-cheol realized no enemies remained nearby. Wait—no, one behind him. He whipped around to find the owl-masked girl startled, turning too. What the hell, why so close? He spun back, scanning quickly. As expected, no live foes around them. The surviving ironclads stood awkwardly at a distance.
Jin-cheol moved to raise his translucent shield again—exposed with no allies nearby, they'd hose them with machine guns any second.
"…?"
His motion froze. So did hers, as she sought cover. The ironclads weren't firing.
[Th-there are two of those monsters…? N-nobody said anything about two…]
[Damn it, one’s the target, but who’s the other…?]
The ironclads neither fired nor charged like their dead comrades. Some even backed away hesitantly. They were scared.
Jin-cheol glanced down at the carnage he'd wrought. Ironclads once striding proudly in steel and tech armor now lay as cold corpses. Blood, oil, snapped bolts, scattered casings, spilled guts, steam hissing from wrecked suits—it all hit him. His eyes darkened.
War was ugly even with dozens clashing and one dying. Here, one man had slaughtered scores. Blood-soaked hands and sword, his ruined clothes. Fuck, blood never dries on these hands.
As he muttered, he noticed the owl-masked girl standing silently beside him. She stared past the hesitant ironclads; he followed her gaze to a Lavito bellowing behind them.
"What the hell are you doing? Advance! Advance! Kill those two monkeys!"
[B-but…]
"No buts! If you're elite from the Great Urata Confederation, overcome this with sheer will! Advance! Advaaaance!"
The shouting Lavito wore ironclad armor like the rest but with his faceplate flipped up. His shrill voice carried across the camp without mechanical muffling. Aha, you're the head honcho.
Jin-cheol stepped forward boldly; the hesitant ironclads recoiled in panic, raising machine guns—ready to spray indiscriminately.
The commander spotted it too, scowling at his terrified troops. Hiding his own fear? No way to know without cracking his skull. But Jin-cheol saw him silently gesture an ironclad behind him forward.
"O… what the…?"
The ironclad stepped up, its massive bulk standing out. Normal Lavitos reached Jin-cheol's solar plexus. Armored ones matched his height but bulked wider. This one? Two heads taller, impossibly huge for a Lavito. Clank-clank, steam hissed from joints, heavy breaths from the visor. And in its hands: not guns or blades, but a massive two-handed hammer.
Nice, a proper maul. Knows his shit.
It shoved others aside, roared, and charged—hammer cocked back to smash Jin-cheol's skull.
Jin-cheol didn't retreat or block. He charged at it, slipping to the side and stabbing the fishing sword into the enlarged armor's gap. The white blade pierced ribs to vital organs cleanly. As he passed, it withdrew smoothly.
Jin-cheol sauntered a few steps casually.
[Krooo…]
The giant dropped its hammer, staggered forward, then tore off its helmet—revealing an Olrog face, not Lavito. Mercenary? Or one of those other races slaving for the Lavito general? No answers now. Eyes glazing, it collapsed, shaking the ground with armor and body weight.
Hearing the thud behind him, Jin-cheol called out.
"You there. Come out."
"…!"
The Lavito he'd eyed—the commander—stared blankly at the fallen Olrog, then snapped to at Jin-cheol's voice. He shrieked again.
"Protect me! Block that bastard and it's two ranks up! Charge!"
Tempted by promotion? More like drilled reflexes and fear of approaching Jin-cheol. The hesitant ironclads opened fire again.
Jin-cheol raised his shield and charged, fishing sword licking armor gaps once more.
The commander, ordering the assault, bizarrely turned and bolted, slapping his radio.
"Brigantine! Brigantine cockpit! Prep for takeoff now!"
[…R-right now, sir?]
"Yes! Now! Start the engines!"
But the response was flustered.
[Uh, the cockpit's… someone locked themselves inside and took it over…]
"What?"
The commander whipped around. Jin-cheol and the owl-masked girl slaughtering ironclads. Not just them?
"Both ships hijacked?!"
[N-no, sir! Just Brigantine 2's cockpit! Shall I start 3?]
"Yes! Now!"
He bolted not for the nearest airship, but one farther back. His troops noticed.
[D-damn! They're monsters!]
[Run! This is suicide!]
The ironclads fled too, stampeding toward the medium airships at the camp's rear. They resembled the Shafpo scout Jin-cheol had downed before—wings, propellers, slim gun barrels. Not as massive as Donchaba's warship or the revolutionaries' Komintern, but building-sized. Room for dozens at least.
The distant airship's props spun up. The nearer one stayed still, but ironclads rushed it first.
Suddenly, its cannons roared—far larger caliber than their machine guns, pounding the ground.
[Aaaagh!]
[B-brigantine! Have you lost it? We're friendlies!]
But the cockpit radio crackled with an unfamiliar voice.
[Drop your weapons and surrender! We're, uh, the revolutionaries! Surrender if you don't wanna die!]
[What?]
As stunned ironclads gawked, cannons fired again at their feet. Screaming, they dropped guns, raising hands high. Belts and heavy MGs clattered to the dirt.
"What the…?"
Jin-cheol stared dumbfounded at the airship. Then he spotted Lamien waving from the forward cockpit window.
"Heh. Snuck in there nice."
Thanks to his diversion, sure—but hijacking without a plan? Impressive. Looked like she had a knack for banditry.
Lamien waved at him, then jolted, whipping her head around. Jin-cheol heard it too: the rear airship's engines rumbling as it lifted vertically.
Vertical takeoff? Airship thing, I guess.
Lamien's airship props whirred to life. Jin-cheol sprinted toward it. The owl-masked girl stood blankly watching.
He boarded in one leap. Inside, uniformed Lavitos gaped in terror. He silently pointed outside; they fled in a panic.
He advanced to the bulkhead cockpit door. The ship lifted with a buoyant lurch. Jin-cheol jammed the fishing sword into the seam, twisted—metal groaned open. He yanked it wide.
"What? Oh, Jin-cheol?"
Lamien greeted him in the cramped cockpit, packed with switches and buttons. It made his head spin.
"What’s with all this crap?"
"Huh? Oh, medium ship's got more to manage—bigger size, more dials."
She yanked the stick. The nose pitched skyward, gaining altitude. Ahead: the fleeing Urata airship.
"Checked while boarding—no one's here."
"No one?"
"Just soldiers."
"Then the captives?"
"No clue. That's why we chase that one—they might be aboard."
Jin-cheol eyed the target ahead.
"Can't just shoot it down, then."
He gripped her shoulder.
"Get as close as possible. Ideally from above."
"Huh? Wait, what're you—?"
He just grinned and left. Lamien yanked harder, puzzled but compliant.
Medium airships lacked large living quarters but were faster, more versatile. Not pure fighters like battle wings, though—aggressive maneuvers stressed the hull. The Urata ship ahead climbed steadily, slower but stable.
Lamien ignored hull strain. Freshly hijacked—no accountability if it broke. Engines groaned, but she pulled harder. Despite later takeoff, they overtook in altitude, closing on the target's top side.
Risky—one slip and collision. But she trusted her hands and the enemy's pilot. Sure enough, the target halted its climb.
Meanwhile, Jin-cheol hung from the open cargo door, cold wind whipping his face hundreds of meters up. Staring down, he muttered,
"…Keep this up, and I'll be a pro Hijacker for real."
Chuckling at his own words, he leaped.
Wind rushed as he slammed onto the Urata airship's top—thunk. Fishing sword pierced to halt the slide; he slashed inside.
Gunfire, screams, flashes erupted within. Moments later, Lamien gripping the stick heard the radio.
[…No one's here either. Looks like they shipped 'em out first on another vessel.]
Jin-cheol's voice. Startled, Lamien maneuvered to peer into the enemy cockpit. There, blood-splattered face grinning and waving from inside: Jin-cheol.