Chapter 206

Chapter 206: The Formation of the Air Force

Without hesitation or even aiming, Midi opened fire.

The silver Vanguard ship’s front whirred with gears as its cannons spun rapidly, unleashing two fiery streams from their dark barrels. The relentless barrage formed a continuous line of cannon fire, resembling blazing whips lashing through the scorching air and icy sea before striking the black reefs.

These fiery whips shifted targets as the Vanguard ship maneuvered. At first glance, the attacks seemed chaotic, but a closer look revealed Midi dismantling the reef "formation" with lethal precision, each strike calculated.

As the ship neared a massive rock, Midi executed a sudden midair flip. The belly hatch opened mid-flip, hurling a heavy model bomb outward with the ship’s momentum.

The black bomb spiraled through the air, whistling as it followed a precise arc to slam into the reef. The impact drove the simulated bomb deep into the stone—had it been real, the destruction would’ve been catastrophic.

Midi’s masterful flying, overwhelming firepower, and unimaginable maneuvers left every observer at the high point stunned.

This was exactly what Midi intended.

His display wasn’t mere showmanship. It aimed to engrave the essence of aerial combat into their minds.

Earlier, Midi had noticed Norton, Wells, and even the Hawk Brigade viewed Skyships as mere support—tools for elevation but not decisive weapons. Their weak firepower, fragile frames, and high cost made them seem inferior to ironclad ships. Even pilots treated them as flying mounts, relying on their own hands to strike enemies.

But Midi knew better. In his past life, Skyships had become adventurers’ greatest weapons on Arad, vital for breaching the Sea of Clouds. His performance sought to shatter their misconceptions.

“Time is short. The alchemical factory must deliver the first batch of mass-produced units in a week,” Midi ordered upon landing. “Any issues?”

Master Norton, still dazed from the demonstration, snapped to attention. “We’ll start immediately.”

“Select pilots skilled in balancing pure magic, with sharp reflexes and coordination. Gather them on Deep Rock Island within a week,” Midi turned to Kelvin. “Can you manage?”

“Yes!” Kelvin straightened, voice firm. The magic scholar had thought he understood the Hawk Brigade’s genius commander—until today’s display revealed Midi’s unfathomable depth. In the face of such power, obedience was the only path.

“Good.” Midi nodded. “Training begins in a week. I’ll be the instructor.”

With Midi’s approval, the Vanguard ship prototype was finalized. Norton and Wells rushed the blueprints to the assembly line, while Kelvin returned to Belmar to secretly recruit candidates for Deep Rock Island.

A week vanished.

On the West Coast, guerrilla skirmishes flared between adventurers, Arena Experts, and the Empire around Faero Bay.

The Southern Sea churned as Belmar’s ironclads clashed with the Delos Empire’s growing Dragonbone fleet. Outgunned by enhanced magic arrays, the ironclads steadily lost ground.

In the Sea of Three Towers, an uneasy trueness held. Midi and Wiseman circled each other, probing for weaknesses but avoiding direct conflict—exchanging only taunts during rare clashes.

By the eighth day, thirty Vanguard ships and sixty pilots stood ready on Deep Rock Island.

Bracing against the cold wind, the warriors-turned-pilots stood rigid as javelins beside their ships. Their eyes burned with anticipation. This was Midi Asreks—the legend himself!

Most original Hawk Brigade elites now led their own units. These recruits knew the “Iron Triangle” only through tales. Yet here stood the “Sword of Victory and Guardian,” their instructor.

Surveying the fledgling unit, Midi felt a pang of irony. In his past life, he’d been a trainee—likely cannon fodder—until grit and his comrades’ support drove him to awaken. Now, he shaped history.

Perhaps future aerial heroes stood among them.

A faint smile touched his lips. This time, he’d used his rebirth wisely.

“Listen well,” Midi began. “The training will be brutal. Dropouts will soar. Danger equals real combat. In a week, we’ll have sixty ships—but only sixty spots. Withdraw now if you doubt yourselves.”

Silence stretched. A minute passed. Not one flinched; their resolve hardened.

“Good. Training starts now. In a month, your test awaits.” He snapped his fingers.

A colossal cage rose, revealing an eight-meter Blue Wing Dragon—scales glinting, wings spread ten meters, roar shaking bones.

“One ship versus one dragon. But I trust you’ll succeed.”

Midi’s mix of intimidation and encouragement was a commander’s classic. Yet he knew: half might fail. Two months could boost success by 10%, three months by 20%. But time was a luxury.

The Sky City’s emergence loomed. Every second counted.