Wings of the Stars

One Week and Two Days Later

The once-bustling Kovorograd Air Force Base was now a chaotic mess of activity. The rumble of engines, the clatter of cargo being loaded, and the steady hum of voices filled the air. Massive C-130 Hercules and C-17 Globemaster cargo aircraft lined the runways, their cavernous bellies being crammed with supplies, vehicles, and personnel. The entire base was in full evacuation mode—the 51st Teyvat Squadron was being relocated.

Their new home? Zephyr's Island—a strategically critical location just off the northern coast of Mondstadt, the closest island to the Teyvat Orbital Elevator.

The sky was a piercing blue, the sun at its peak, casting long shadows as mechanics, soldiers, and pilots worked tirelessly under the relentless daylight. The air smelled of burning fuel, hot metal, and sweat.

Inside Albedo's Hangar

Albedo leaned against a workbench, arms crossed, watching the organized chaos unfold just outside. Soldiers and ground crews scrambled to load up crates, vehicles, and spare parts into the waiting C-17s and C-130s.

His golden eyes flickered with a mixture of amusement and disdain.

"Huh," he scoffed, shaking his head. "So now we're suddenly being treated like a regular unit? Guess those rumors were true after all."

Beside him, his assistant Sucrose nodded, adjusting her glasses as she peered out of the hangar.

"Yeah… From what I overheard, we're moving to Zephyr's Island. It's just off the northern coast of Mondstadt—the closest landmass to the Orbital Elevator."

Albedo exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Great. Because being a mechanic and an alchemist wasn't enough, now we're somehow essential personnel for this goddamn war effort."

Sucrose sighed. "Well… It makes sense. Our job isn't changing—we'll still be keeping these planes in the air. But now, instead of fixing fighters for convicts, we're fixing them for actual, legitimate squadrons."

Albedo rolled his eyes. "That's assuming we even make it to Zephyr's Island in one piece."

The Briefing Room – Teyvat Spare Squadron's Last Mission Briefing

The briefing room was packed—not just with the Drowned Squadron pilots, but with other convicts who had served their time. The air was thick with tension, uncertainty, and… anticipation.

Commander Jakob stood at the front, arms folded as a massive holographic display of the Teyvat map flickered into existence behind him. His face was as harsh and unreadable as ever.

After a long pause, he exhaled and finally spoke.

"Alright. Seems like those rumors are true..."

A few murmurs rippled through the room. Jakob continued, his voice unwavering.

"The General Staff Office has officially acknowledged your combat capabilities. Effective immediately, all charges have been dropped. You've been pardoned."

A silence hung in the air. Some pilots exchanged wary glances, others clenched their fists, still trying to process what they had just heard.

Jakob's gaze settled on Furina.

"That includes you, Waltz."

Furina's expression didn't change. She just exhaled softly and leaned back in her chair.

Jakob glanced at the rest of the pilots, his next words carrying the weight of finality.

"Starting today, the Teyvat Spare Squadron is no more. You are now the 51st Teyvat Air Force Squadron—a fully recognized unit."

The words hit like a bombshell. No longer convicts. No longer expendable assets.

They were legit.

Jakob turned back to the holographic map.

"Your first deployment as a real squadron will be at Zephyr's Island. The northern airport has been reclaimed, and the battle for the rest of the island is ongoing. That'll be your new home. A proper base.

He smirked slightly. "A blessing, if you ask me."

Then, his face darkened.

"As for me… my time leading a penal unit is over. Command has reassigned me to a new base, near the northern front in Snezhnaya. I won't be your problem anymore."

Some pilots exhaled in relief at that. Others, like Furina, Clorinde, and Wriothesley, remained impassive.

Jakob's smirk disappeared.

"However… There's one more thing."

The room tensed.

"We'll be making a refueling stop at Zimogorov. It's in Snezhnayan territory, but they have strong ties to the rest of Teyvat. That being said…" He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "We will still be flying through contested airspace.

"…and if the drones attack again, we'll have to fight them off."

A heavy silence.

Jakob straightened, his gaze now locked onto three specific pilots.

"Furina. Clorinde. Wriothesley. Stay behind."

The trio exchanged glances.

Furina sighed, running a hand through her silver-bluehair. "Here we go…"

Clorinde folded her arms. "What now?"

The room emptied, leaving only the three of them and Jakob.

Jakob didn't waste time.

"I need three escort fighters for the Zimogorov route. I want you three. You'll provide air support for the transport convoy. If those drones show up, your job is to keep them the hell away from my plane."

His eyes narrowed.

"And if they do attack? You protect my plane with your goddamn lives."

He exhaled sharply, his glare intensifying.

"If the General Staff Office hadn't specifically requested you three dumbasses for this, you'd already be on a transport to Zephyr's Island."

Then, his eyes locked onto Furina.

"Especially you, Furina. You're covered in Imena's blood. And here you are, still fucking around in the skies like some goddamn ace."

The room fell deathly silent.

Jakob stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You so much as breathe wrong, I won't hesitate to shoot your sorry ass out of the sky myself."

The display shut off.

Jakob turned on his heel and stormed out.

Furina scoffed, watching him leave.

"Tch. Get a load of this asshole."

Wriothesley sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I can't wait for his sorry ass to be someone else's problem."

Without another word, the trio left the briefing room and headed back to their barracks to pack up.

Furina's Quarters

Minutes ticked by.

Furina stuffed the last of her gear into her duffel bag, her movements automatic, mechanical—until something caught her eye.

A photograph.

She picked it up carefully, her gloved fingers brushing over the worn edges.

A photo of her old squadron—Nocturne and Tidal Squadron—taken aboard the Ousia-Class Carrier, The Blancheur.

Right in front of her Rafale M.

A soft smile formed on her lips.

"I hope you're all doing well…

"Hope to see you soon."

She carefully tucked the photo into her bag, zipped it up, and slung it over her shoulder.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped out of her room.

The mission wasn't over yet.

Departure from Kovorograd

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over Kovorograd Air Base, its once-busy tarmac now thinning as transport aircraft steadily lifted off into the sky. The war machine was in motion, relocating piece by piece to Zephyr's Island—the new front.

But for Furina, the war was far from over.

She walked briskly across the apron, her flight suit tight against her frame, the sound of jet engines and clattering cargo filling the air around her. Her Rafale M sat waiting—sleek, pristine, and battle-worn in spirit. The aircraft had seen more than its fair share of combat, yet it remained standing, a silent testament to her survival.

As Furina approached, she glanced at the tail.

The three strikes—the marks that labeled her a convict, a criminal, a pawn of the war machine—were gone.

She exhaled softly. A fresh start. At least, on the surface.

Crouching beneath the fuselage, she opened the travel pod affixed to the aircraft's centerline. The hydraulics let out a soft hiss as the hatch swung open, revealing the empty storage compartment. Without hesitation, she shoved her duffle bag inside, securing it in place before sealing the hatch shut.

She stood up and turned.

Two figures approached through the heat haze—Clorinde and Wriothesley.

They carried the same air of quiet confidence, of pilots who had seen hell and come out the other side.

Clorinde, with her rigid discipline, and Wriothesley, ever the calm professional. They each headed toward their respective aircraft—an SU-27 Flanker and a Mirage 2000-5—parked alongside Furina's Rafale.

The three of them—once outcasts, criminals, tools of war—were now something else.

Pre-Flight Checks

Furina climbed the integrated ladder of her Rafale, her hands moving on instinct as she settled into the ejection seat.

The aircraft's electrical systems were already online, glowing softly in the dimly lit cockpit.

Reaching down, she grabbed her helmet, pulling it over her head. The visor slid into place with a faint click. She fastened her oxygen mask, securing it tightly before keying the radio.

"Drowned Two. Drowned Three. How copy?"

A pause. Then, two familiar voices crackled over the comms.

"Drowned Two, five by five." (Clorinde.)

"Drowned Three, loud and clear, Waltz." (Wriothesley.)

Satisfied, Furina reached for the canopy switch.

With a hiss, the glass shield lowered, sealing her inside.

She moved swiftly, flipping the main electrical switch from STBY to RIGHT.

The first M88 engine began its startup sequence. The deep whine of the compressor spooling up filled the cockpit as the engine reached 25% RPM.

Furina then nudged the right Engine Management Lever to IDLE.

A soft roar. The engine came alive.

She repeated the process for the left engine. Within moments, both turbines were humming, stabilized, and ready.

Furina switched channels.

"Drowned Squadron. Let's get out of here."

Clorinde responded immediately. "Wilco. Drowned Two, following Waltz."

Wriothesley followed. "Drowned Three, following the pack."

Releasing the brakes, Furina pushed the throttle forward slightly, her Rafale crawling onto the taxiway.

Clorinde's SU-27 and Wriothesley's Mirage 2000-5 fell into formation behind her, their engines humming in unison.

Cleared for Takeoff

Shortly after, the trio reached the runway threshold.

Furina lined up, staring down the long stretch of concrete and asphalt, waiting for the signal.

The radio crackled.

"Drowned One, this is Tower. You are cleared for takeoff. The Base Commander's plane already departed."

Then, a pause.

The voice on the radio softened—just a bit.

"Well, Waltz… this is where we part ways. I hope we meet again, in better circumstances. And in different squadrons."

Furina blinked.

The control tower had a change of heart.

She smiled—just barely. "Tower, Waltz is cleared for takeoff. See you around, Tower."

With that, she slammed the throttle forward.

The twin M88 engines roared, their afterburners igniting in a blaze of orange and blue. The Rafale surged forward, accelerating down the runway with brute force.

The airspeed indicator climbed.

Furina pulled back gently on the sidestick.

The nose lifted.

The Rafale left the ground.

As she climbed, she reached for the gear lever and pulled it up.

The landing gear retracted, its doors sealing shut.

Below, Clorinde and Wriothesley followed suit, their fighters breaking free from Kovorograd's grasp.

The three of them climbed into the vast blue sky, forming up in a tight element.

Their next stop? Jakob's C-17 transport plane.

Their mission? Escort it safely to Zimogorov for refueling.

On the Ground

Albedo and Sucrose stood on the tarmac, watching the three fighter jets disappear into the horizon.

Albedo's expression was unreadable, his golden eyes focused on the departing aircraft.

After a moment, he exhaled. "Good luck, Furina… I hope those upgrades will help you in whatever comes next."

Sucrose sighed, adjusting her glasses. "Come on, Albedo. Let's get to the plane. The last thing we need is to be left behind."

Albedo smirked. "Right. But let's be clear—I'm no damn soldier."

The two of them turned, making their way to a waiting C-130 transport.

It was time to leave Kovorograd Air Base behind.

For good.

Cruising into Hostile Skies

The C-17 Globemaster carrying Colonel Jakob cruised through the twilight sky, flanked by three lethal silhouettes—Furina's Rafale M, Clorinde's SU-27, and Wriothesley's Mirage 2000-5.

At 35,000 feet, the world below was nothing more than a darkened abyss, dotted with the occasional glimmer of city lights and war-torn landscapes.

Their destination: Zimogorov.

ETA: Twelve minutes.

So far, the flight had been uneventful.

Then the radio crackled.

"Drowned One, AWACS Justice. We have new orders."

Furina's ears perked up. Orders? This close to Zimogorov?

The AWACS continued, its tone edged with urgency.

"Camouflaged SAM sites detected in the area. Seek and destroy, Drowned One and Drowned Two."

Then came the real warning.

"Kill anyone trying to kill the commander. Even if they're one of us."

A heavy silence followed.

Then Clorinde scoffed, venom in her voice.

"Tch. Like how you tried to kill Wolfbite?"

AWACS Justice didn't hesitate.

"It was an accident. So shut. Up."

Colonel Jakob's voice cut in, sharp and commanding.

"Both of you, shut up and begin defending."

Without another word, Furina and Clorinde peeled away from formation.

The hunt had begun.

Ghosts in the Dark

Furina pushed her throttle forward, breaking off from the C-17 and scanning the terrain below with her IR camera.

The landscape was a patchwork of hills, valleys, and concealed deathtraps.

Then her IFF system flickered.

A red marker appeared on her HUD.

Enemy SAM Site detected.

Furina switched her weapons to air-to-ground mode, arming her guided bombs.

A lock.

The tone.

She didn't hesitate.

"Bombs away."

The bomb detached from the pylon, slicing through the night air before erupting in a fireball on impact.

AWACS Justice confirmed the kill.

"SAM site destroyed, Drowned One."

Clorinde wasn't far behind.

Another site appeared. Another lock.

"Bombs away."

A second explosion lit up the terrain below.

"SAM site destroyed, Drowned Two."

The mission was progressing smoothly. But then—

The Commander's voice cut through the comms, his tone calculated.

"Waltz. The General Staff Office and the Teyvat Union Peacekeeping Commission have doubts that you killed Ms. Imena. Your case will be reopened."

Furina's grip tightened on the stick.

"Successfully defend me, and maybe you'll be back to being a Lieutenant. Make a good impression."

She scoffed.

"About damn time."

More Targets, More Problems

She pushed her nose down, scanning the terrain.

Her IFF flickered again. Another SAM site.

But this one was different.

It had a radar vehicle.

A direct threat to airborne assets.

She locked on.

"Bombs away!"

The guided bomb dropped, streaking toward its target.

Direct hit.

AWACS confirmed. "Another site destroyed, Drowned One."

Then—the enemy radio crackled.

A new voice. Cold. Precise.

"This is Tenebris Squadron. We have visual on the enemy transport. Engaging."

Furina's eyes narrowed. "Drowned Squadron, we got enemies."

AWACS Justice came in with the update.

"Three enemy SU-30s, bearing 090."

Her instincts kicked in.

"Wilco. Drowned One, engaging."

Clorinde followed. "Drowned Two, engaging."

The dogfight had begun.

The Hunter and the Prey

Furina reached the enemy first.

The three SU-30s scattered, breaking in different directions.

But one—one was diving straight for Jakob's C-17.

Not on my watch.

Furina chased it down. The enemy fighter dipped low, hugging the terrain.

A classic move.

Furina smirked. "Not today, sunshine."

She pushed the stick forward, following the SU-30 into the dive.

The enemy banked hard left. Then hard right.

Furina matched every move.

Her HUD flashed. A lock.

A tone.

"Fox Two!"

The missile streaked toward the target—

Miss.

Furina gritted her teeth.

"Come on, Furina!"

She fired again.

The missile struck.

A fireball erupted, sending the SU-30 spiraling toward the ground.

AWACS Justice confirmed.

"Splash One, Drowned One!"

Then—

"Splash One, Drowned Two!"

Another one down.

Only one left.

Furina scanned the sky—

There.

The final SU-30 climbed high, trying to gain altitude and force an overshoot.

Furina reacted instantly.

She yanked the stick back, her Rafale climbing straight up after it.

Her thrust-to-weight ratio was superior.

She closed the gap.

A lock.

A tone.

But she didn't fire a missile.

Instead, she switched to guns.

The HUD reticle aligned.

She squeezed the trigger.

Tracer rounds ripped through the night.

The SU-30 shuddered as its wings and engines were torn apart.

A moment later, it dropped from the sky, engulfed in flames.

AWACS confirmed.

"Splash one, Drowned One!"

The skies were clear.

For now.

The Ghosts of the Sky

The battlefield of the heavens was never truly silent.

Even as the last SU-30 fell, a new enemy emerged.

AWACS Justice's voice returned to the comms, sharp and urgent.

"More bogeys. Bearing 270. Gripen E's."

Furina's IFF display updated, painting four fresh enemies in deep crimson.

She narrowed her eyes.

"I got a visual. Engaging."

Clorinde's voice followed.

"Forming up with Waltz. Engaging."

Like predators chasing their prey, the two Teyvatian fighters broke through the skies, moving at the very edge of the sound barrier.

A Clash of Speed and Precision

As Furina neared the enemy formation, she deployed her spoilerons, rapidly decelerating in mid-air.

The Gripens scattered, breaking formation.

Furina grinned.

She disengaged the spoilers, letting speed bleed just enough before she executed a brutal high-G 180-degree turn.

The Rafale M groaned under the strain, but she was already on one of the Gripens' tails.

The enemy pilot wasn't giving up easily.

The Gripen E twisted and turned, banking hard, climbing, diving—doing anything to shake her off.

But Furina was relentless.

Her HUD flashed—a lock.

The tone rang in her headset.

"Fox Two!"

A missile streaked toward its target.

Miss.

The Gripen evaded, banking hard left.

Furina tightened her grip on the sidestick, her frustration mounting.

"Come on, Waltz!"

She fired again.

The Gripen deployed flares, countermeasures breaking the missile's lock.

Furina's teeth clenched.

"Damn it, come on!"

She flipped to guns.

The 30mm rounds ripped through the night, striking true.

Direct hits on both engines and the wing.

The Gripen E spiraled down, its fuselage engulfed in flames before it crashed into the abyss below.

AWACS Justice confirmed.

"Splash one, Waltz!"

But victory was short-lived.

Her cockpit blared a warning.

A lock-on alarm.

Another Gripen was hunting her.

A Death-Defying Move

Furina's heart pounded.

She had seconds to react.

No time to think.

She yanked the stick back, then kicked the rudder hard right.

Her Rafale pitched up at a brutal 90-degree angle, then executed a full 360-degree yaw spin mid-air.

It was a move few pilots could pull off.

From her wing, Clorinde's eyes widened.

"Holy crap!"

The enemy Gripen overshot, blasting past below her, unable to correct its angle.

Furina grinned viciously.

She flipped her weapon system to HCAA's.

A lock.

A tone.

"Fox Three!"

A high-capability air-to-air missile roared from her Rafale's pylon.

Direct hit.

The Gripen exploded mid-air, its burning remains tumbling into the darkness.

AWACS confirmed.

"Splash one, Drowned One!"

Then another call.

"Splash one, Drowned Three!"

Furina chuckled, her adrenaline still high.

"What do you know? Wolfbite actually got a kill."

Wriothesley's voice crackled through the radio, a smirk clear in his tone.

"That's why they told me to stay!"

Then—finally—came the words they had been waiting for.

AWACS Justice's voice carried relief.

"Skies clear all around. Form up on the Commander's transport plane."

Furina exhaled, pulling back on the stick to regain formation.

"Drowned One, Wilco."

Clorinde fell into place beside her.

"Drowned Two, Roger."

The two fighter jets glided through the night, moving as one.

The C-17 Globemaster loomed ahead, still intact, still in the fight.

AWACS Justice's final message rang out.

"Good work, everyone. Transport One, prepare for descent."

Then, for the first time, the Commander's voice softened.

"What do you know… support actually kept me alive."

A pause.

"This is significant for the forces."

Furina allowed herself a small, satisfied smirk.

They had done their job.

But the war was far from over.

The Ghost That Wasn't Meant to Exist

For a moment, the skies were calm.

Then—

AWACS Justice's voice snapped through the comms.

"Wait! Something's popped up!"

Clorinde groaned. "What now!?"

"Fast-moving bandit! They're fast. Really fast!"

Furina's eyes widened.

"What!?"

Wriothesley gasped. "Say what now!?"

Then—

A white streak ripped past them all.

A phantom in the night sky.

The unidentified craft climbed at an insane angle, then abruptly slowed down, almost as if defying physics.

Furina's head snapped toward it.

A white fuselage, backward-swept wings, and a razor-sharp nose.

Her heart skipped a beat.

What the hell is that thing?

Then—

It dove.

Straight for them.

The Predator Becomes Prey

AWACS Justice shouted into the radio.

"Everyone, defensive formations!"

Then, to Furina—

"Waltz! Take it out!"

Her expression hardened.

"Roger."

The phantom aircraft roared past her.

Furina slammed her throttles to full power, the M88 engines howling as she pursued.

The unknown craft suddenly climbed—hard.

Furina gritted her teeth, yanking the stick back, her Rafale clawing for altitude.

Then—

It snapped downward.

A brutal vertical descent.

Furina reacted instantly.

She slammed her throttles to idle, yanked the sidestick back, and let the Rafale flip nose-over.

She throttled back to full and chased.

The lock-on tone screamed in her headset.

"Fox Three!"

Two HCAA missiles streaked away.

One missed.

One hit.

But—

It kept flying.

AWACS Justice's voice was tense.

"The craft's been hit—but it's still in the air!"

Dancing on the Edge of Death

The ground rushed up.

Furina's terrain warning system blared.

"TERRAIN! PULL UP!"

The enemy craft pulled up first.

Furina's instincts screamed at her.

She yanked the stick back, pulling a brutal high-G maneuver.

She felt the force crush her into her seat.

Her vision blurred at the edges.

The G-meter on her HUD climbed—7… 8… 9Gs.

The Rafale held together wonderfully.

Albedo's upgrades he mentioned to Dassault about reinforcing the fuselage is working like a charm.

She gritted her teeth through the pressure.

Then—

She stabilized.

The chase continued.

From a distance, Clorinde and Wriothesley watched in stunned silence.

Clorinde's jaw dropped. "Fucking hell… look at Waltz go. Her moves are insane!"

Wriothesley nodded, awe in his voice. "Yeah… she's not backing down. Even if it means bending the airframe."

Then, the Commander's voice cut through the radio, filled with panic.

"What in the hell is that thing even!? Keep it away from my plane!"

The Final Kill

Furina watched as the enemy suddenly climbed again.

A vertical escape.

No. You're not getting away.

She yanked her stick back, the Rafale surging upward after it.

Her HUD flashed green.

A lock.

A tone.

"Fox Three!"

Two HCAA missiles left her pylons.

One hit.

Two hit.

Then—

An explosion.

The phantom craft burst into flames, falling from the sky in a fiery wreck.

Furina cut power, flipping her nose over into a smooth descent.

She stabilized, re-entering formation.

AWACS Justice's voice carried relief.

"Bandit down, Waltz! Skies clear all around!"

Then, a pause.

A rare moment of honesty.

"I'm gonna admit… it's a breath of fresh air having you here, Waltz."

Furina smirked, exhaling.

"Damn right."

The Past Comes Back

As the squadron descended toward Zimogorov Air Force Base, a new transmission came through.

AWACS Justice's tone shifted again.

"Everyone, stand guard! We've got allied fighters inbound!"

Furina's heart skipped a beat.

"Who could it be now!?"

AWACS Justice transmitted the hail.

"This is the Teyvat 51st Air Force Squadron. What's your affiliation?"

Then—

A female voice.

Furina froze.

She knew that voice.

"Justice? This is the Teyvat Strategic Strike Group. This is Primordial One. Dandelion."

AWACS Justice sounded surprised.

"Primordial Squadron? What are you doing here?"

Dandelion chuckled.

"We were chasing an experimental drone around here."

Then, her voice gained a teasing edge.

"And I won't be surprised if Waltz took it out already."

Furina let out a short laugh.

A New Offer

The Commander cut in.

"This is Commander Jakob. I apologize if Waltz took it out. She will be dealt with accordingly."

Furina scoffed. "Come on!"

Dandelion laughed.

"Don't worry, Commander. How about we escort you back to Iron Gale Air Force Base? We can answer any questions you have."

The Commander sighed.

"Why not? Lead the way… besides, support was unreliable."

A beat.

Then—

Furina, Clorinde, and Wriothesley all spoke in unison, exasperated.

"Ugh! Give me a break!"

Dandelion chuckled.

"Commander, the three of them have promise."

A pause.

"As a matter of fact… we're planning on adding a second squadron to the TSSG. And it figures they'd be the perfect start to it."

Shortly after, the Primordial Squadron arrived, their fleet of F-15s forming up in perfect precision.

Leading them was Jean, callsign Dandelion.

And so, the formation turned north, heading toward Iron Gale Air Force Base—off the coast of Mondstadt, near the border of Snezhnaya.

A new battlefield awaited them.

And for the first time in a long while—

Furina felt like she belonged.

New Skies, New Beginnings

The air at Iron Gale Air Force Base was different.

Gone was the endless snow, the brutal cold of the north.

Here, the grass stretched far and wide, rolling over the flatlands like waves. The breeze was crisp, carrying the scent of earth and salt from the distant sea.

For the first time in a long while, Furina felt like she could breathe.

The 51st Air Force Squadron taxied onto the apron, parking directly behind the Primordial Squadron's fighters.

Furina exhaled as she pulled off her helmet, her silver-blue hair cascading free.

"I thought I was gonna pass out chasing that craft down," she muttered, running a hand through her hair. "But I handled myself pretty well."

She climbed down from her Rafale, stepping onto the tarmac and walking towards the traveling pod to grab her bag. Opening the pod door and retrieving her bag. before closing it, and walking away from her Rafale.

With her duffle bag in hand. As she walked over, she saw Clorinde and Wriothesley, both grinning like fools.

Clorinde slowly clapped, shaking her head. "I'm at a loss for words, Lieutenant Furina."

Furina chuckled. "It's still just Furina, Clorinde."

Wriothesley bumped her shoulder, smirking. "Not for long, Furina. With your investigation reopened, the chances of you being reinstated are very high."

Furina laughed, rolling her eyes. "Sure, sure. Come on, let's get to the briefing room."

The Briefing: A Ghost in the Sky

Minutes later, after a senior officer showed them around, they arrived at the briefing room.

The space was packed—not just with their squadron, but with the Primordial Squadron as well.

At the front of the room, standing by the stage, was Jean Gunnhildr.

Callsign: Dandelion.

Leader of the Primordial Squadron.

She smiled. "Welcome to Iron Gale Air Force Base, Drowned Squadron."

Then her expression turned serious.

"Normally, we'd give you a warm welcome, but our situation is… complicated."

A brief pause.

"What Waltz just shot down was an experimental drone. The ADFX-10."

Furina's eyes narrowed. A drone?

Jean continued.

"We were chasing it to observe its maneuverability and combat potential. But with it destroyed, we didn't gather much data."

She then turned her gaze to Furina.

"To be honest, Waltz… we didn't think it was possible to take it out."

Jean snapped her fingers.

"Oh, and by the way—your old commander is transferring his post."

Furina blinked. "Wait, what?"

Jean smirked. "That means from now on, you're my responsibility."

A murmur spread across the room.

"We're currently processing your transfer to the Teyvat Strategic Strike Group. And… we're also starting up a second squadron."

Jean's gaze locked onto Furina's.

"And you, Waltz, might just be the lead flight of that squadron."

The room fell silent.

Clorinde and Wriothesley both glanced at Furina, but she kept her expression neutral.

Jean nodded. "For now, you and your squadron can stand by until further notice. That's all. Dismissed."

A Moment of Peace

The Primordial Squadron dispersed, returning to their own routines.

Furina, Clorinde, and Wriothesley made their way toward their newly issued rooms.

For the first time in months, they weren't sleeping in some makeshift barracks.

No more temporary deployments.

No more Drowned Squadron.

That night, as Furina lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, she exhaled.

This was it.

She had proven her innocence.

She had proven she was a reliable asset to the war.

Most importantly—

She had proven that she wasn't the person who shot and killed Former President Imena.

Mission success.

Now, all that was left to do—

Was wait.