The tense updates from the Kazdel frontier had already reached the ears of everyone aboard Rhodes Island. From the very first day the intelligence reports trickled in, the Doctor had plunged into structuring various strategic arrangements, even though they already possessed a highly dependable method to counter those hostile elements.
While the incoming dispatches explicitly stated that the forces gathered at the border were demonstrating a massive, intimidating momentum, the chaotic developments still fit comfortably within the variables they had predicted. Consequently, the crisis wasn't nearly as severe as the raw data implied.
Yet, despite the grand outlook remaining relatively optimistic, no sane person on the bridge assumed the enemy had gathered or initiated a conflict merely to roll out a red carpet for their arrival. It would be a massive blessing if those hostile forces simply refrained from throwing a wrench into their gears.
"How much time do we have left before we reach the outer perimeter?"
Jeanne sat near a massive viewport, watching the landscape recede as the mobile fortress steadily advanced. She turned her head toward the Doctor, shifting her focus to the question that had been drifting through her thoughts for days.
Over the past few days, their convoy had already weathered multiple small-scale harassment attempts from fragmented raider groups. It remained a mystery whether those outcasts were simply dense or completely unhinged; the moment they spotted a titan-class landship cruising through the wastelands, their immediate instinct was to formulate a wild plan to hijack the grand prize!
Naturally, these pathetic elements failed to stir up any real friction. The long-range marksmen embedded along the outer hull handled the threat with crisp execution, systematically dropping the raider captains with precise headshots. The moment their leadership crumbled, the surviving outcasts scattered faster than startled rabbits.
Though such behavior appeared incredibly foolish on its surface, it wasn't entirely outside the realm of reason. After all, if a desperate mercenary crew successfully commandeered a vessel of this magnitude, the financial bounty from selling the hull would ensure their descendants never wanted for food or shelter for generations. There would always be desperate fools willing to gamble their lives against such absurd margins.
Furthermore, there was a persistent possibility that these raiders hadn't initiated the chase out of personal greed. They might very well be proxies pushed forward by a shadow entity who wished to prevent Babel's departure, sacrificing these expendable scouts to stall the vanguard's momentum.
"The day after tomorrow," the Doctor murmured, pausing to review their current velocity data before continuing. "If we push the drive cores to their maximum safe output, we could theoretically cross into the Kazdel border zones by tomorrow evening."
As she finished her sentence, the strategist let out a low, weary sigh. Under their current restrictions, they weren't utilizing anywhere near the full mechanical potential of Rhodes Island; otherwise, their progress would never be this painfully sluggish.
The technical variables hindering their speed were numerous, but the primary bottleneck stemmed from the fact that their engineering overhauls hadn't reached the intended thresholds. Worse still, their active reserves of refined Originium crystals remained dangerously low.
The core reason for this energy deficit was entirely transparent: they had converted a substantial portion of their emergency fuel stock into a physical catalyst for Jeanne's summoning rituals to manifest her wyvern legion. Even with those constraints factored in, their current pace was highly impressive.
While their speed couldn't match a specialized high-velocity vanguard cruiser, their current forward momentum still matched the highest tier of standard mobile fortresses active on the continent.
Regrettably, they had only barely scraped into that elite bracket. To fully awaken the raw power sleeping within this prehistoric beast, they would need to sink an immense amount of time and wealth into the hull. For the leadership of Babel, however, that investment was undeniably worth the cost.
Turning her attention back to the desk, the Doctor began sifting through a fresh stack of documents, her head aching as she wrestled with the glaring friction between their tightly restricted financial budget and the endless demands of the restoration schedule.
Beside her, Jeanne had already leaned her head against the armrest, drifting into a deep sleep. She had spent the last several days intensely monitoring the system grids, and the accumulated mental fatigue had finally caught up with her.
Truth be told, the current navigation route hadn't been engineered by the Doctor at all. The grand strategist, whose intellect was usually consumed by rigorous calculation, seemed to have been infected by a bizarre wave of laziness recently, discovering an unprecedented affinity for slacking off.
Presently, the Doctor was essentially utilizing the Saintess as a living, breathing oracle! The complex course they were charting through the wastes had been laid down entirely under the unerring guidance of Jeanne's divine Revelation, completely sparing the strategist the trouble of mapping out the geography herself.
Yet, Jeanne couldn't shake the feeling that this brilliant tactician had grown increasingly dependent since learning about her celestial sight. It reminded her of how Talulah used to meticulously handle the navigation during their early journeys, only to completely check out and let Jeanne lead the way once she realized her partner possessed infallible guidance.
But my divine Revelation is not a commercial map system! Jeanne grumbled internally before she had drifted off. Is it not supposed to be reserved for profound, world-altering crises?
When Jeanne finally opened her eyes, she discovered the Doctor sitting beside her couch, her posture radiating a soft, extraordinarily tender aura that mirrored a doting older sister. The sheer sweetness of the display caused a sudden wave of intense suspicion to ripple through the Saintess.
"Jeanne, my dear, how are you feeling today? Are your limbs aching? Do you require any rest...?"
Listening to those words, which carried the distinct, greasy cadence of a shady merchant plotting a swindle, Jeanne felt her heart drop into her boots. This uncharacteristic display of pure affection was a massive red flag; this shady tactician was undoubtedly harboring a devious agenda!
Driven by that immediate deduction, Jeanne's gaze sharpened with intense vigilance, her body tensing as she prepared herself for whatever absurd, manipulative proposal the Doctor was about to unleash.
Her paranoia was entirely justified. Ever since the strategist discovered that Jeanne's official commemorative posters commanded an astronomical price within the markets of Laterano, she had spent hours reviewing Babel's fractured financial ledger before boldly suggesting they form a joint enterprise to publish a series of glamour photography books.
That particular blueprint had been swiftly buried the moment Jeanne leveled a murderous, sword-drawing glare at her face. Since that day, the Doctor had explicitly barred the topic from her vocabulary, terrified that the Saintess might permanently silence her to protect her dignity.
Now, Jeanne sat in tense silence, her mind racing as she attempted to decipher exactly what twisted purpose this eccentric woman was cooking up before she could vocalize the trap.
"Out with it," Jeanne snapped, rolling her eyes with deep exasperation. "Do you not realize that when The Ghost of Babel attempts to masquerade as a warm, comforting sister, the sheer dissonance makes you radiate an aura of absolute malice from head to toe?"
Faced with the blunt rebuttal, the Doctor instantly dropped her sweet mask, straightening her spine as she adopted her usual professional demeanor. She cleared her throat, utilizing a carefully measured tone as she laid out her proposition:
"Jeanne, I was wondering if you might harbor a sudden interest in a brief excursion? For instance... flying ahead to the frontier zones to offer our vanguard a bit of tactical relief?"
Hearing the sugary phrasing, Jeanne instantly put the pieces together. The mercenary units holding the line at the Kazdel border had clearly sent an urgent dispatch seeking immediate reinforcements, and the only asset capable of bridging that massive geographic distance ahead of schedule was Jeanne herself!
The Saintess refrained from offering an immediate answer. She simply sat in her chair, maintaining a placid smile as she let a long, heavy silence stretch between them.
The complete lack of feedback drove the Doctor close to the edge of exasperation. Please, sister, just deliver a straight answer! if she cultivated this terrible habit of leaving people hanging in suspense, a short-tempered operator would eventually lose their mind and challenge her to a duel.
Then again, the strategist quickly recalled the terrifying tier of martial power the Saintess wielded. Even if an adversary lost their temper, they would have to think long and hard about whether their personal combat capabilities could survive a collision with her standard banner.
"Very well," Jeanne finally agreed, giving a decisive nod. "My mission is simply to descend upon the perimeter and sweep those hostile mercenaries off the map, correct?"
After all, little Fafnir had been thoroughly bored cooped up inside the iron hull of Rhodes Island. The young dragon had spent her days locked into an endless cycle of eating and sleeping, to the point where Jeanne swore the child was starting to accumulate a noticeable layer of softness around her frame. Taking this window to take her out for a massive run across the wastes was an excellent arrangement.
The moment the Saintess accepted the deployment, the Doctor's enthusiasm surged to an unprecedented peak. The raw heat of her gratitude left Jeanne feeling profoundly uncomfortable; she couldn't help but wonder if the strategist's psychological baseline was fracturing yet again.
That disturbing question continued to drift through Jeanne's thoughts, remaining entirely unresolved even as she marched out to the launch deck. Surrounded by a cheering send-off party, she secured Fafnir in her arms and vaulted onto the back of a massive wyvern, watching the figures on the ground dwindle into tiny black specks as they soared into the heavens.
She lowered her gaze to review the young dragon cradled against her chest. Before they had cleared the hangar, Fafnir had managed to stuff a massive canvas sack full of hardened Ursus black bread to serve as inflight fuel, looking for all the world like a perfectly content, ancient apex predator.
Watching the child joyfully gnawing on a piece of crust that was roughly as dense as structural concrete, Jeanne felt a pang of genuine envy toward her simple, untroubled perspective. At the very least, Fafnir's world was entirely hollow of administrative burdens or grand moral dilemmas.
Yet, transforming herself into a carefree little glutton was an entirely unrealistic path for a Saintess. Jeanne sighed, letting her mind wander through the freezing, howling winds as she adjusted her grip on the reins. She redirected the wyvern's vector, steering her mount directly toward the coordinates of the raging Sarkaz civil conflict.
It was time to give those ground-dwelling factions a stark, unforgettable demonstration of what true terror from the heavens looked like!
With that fierce thought fueling her momentum, Jeanne unfurled her great banner, letting its fabric snap violently in the gale. Instantly, a bizarre, shimmering ripple distorted the fabric of space all around her mount. A split second later, a magnificent flock of sub-wyverns erupted from the spiritual void, aligning their formations beside their commander before diving toward the horizon like a volley of living artillery shells.