Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 1393: Trump Card

Guided by the transmitter-receivers, the three teams held formation across a thousand-meter separation as though they were connected by invisible wire.

Seventy-five Fire of Heavens arrived at their designated intercept positions nearly simultaneously and converged on the Devilbeast formation from three directions — their approach lines crossing like the blades of open scissors. In one pass, they tore through the enemy’s ranks.

The largest aerial engagement of the Battle of Divine Will to date erupted above the Impassable Mountain Range of Wolfheart.

Demon battle-cries and the howl of engines tangled together across the peaks. The Devilbeasts that took hits spun downward in tight, fatal spirals — their riders, whatever power they possessed, could not override the physics of a falling mount. Blue impacts dotted the mountainside below.

The initial pass destroyed formation on both sides. Following the flight manual, the Aerial Knights broke hard, used their speed to open distance, then turned and came back.

“Fire at will — fire at will!” Tilly gave the command and led by going herself, the Phoenix’s powerful engines pulling her clear of the melee. Probably because of the plane’s color — vivid enough to draw the eye — several Devilbeasts fell into pursuit immediately. She had expected that.

Every enemy chasing her was one not chasing someone else.

The advantage of speed only compounded with distance. Let them chase her far enough and then turn, and she owned the terms of the next exchange entirely.

“Your Highness, watch yourself — there’s a big one with eyes on you!” Good’s voice from the receiver.

“I see it.” She swept a glance behind her without altering course. “Hold your position. I’ll call if I need support.”

The Phoenix’s performance exceeded the Fire of Heaven and Fire of Heaven Mark II in every meaningful dimension. She had never allocated herself a wingman — no biplane in the fleet could keep pace with her. Solo operation was not recklessness; it was the correct use of the machine.

She rode the wind into a climb, the Devilbeasts behind her laboring hard with their wings to close the gap. By the time both parties came face to face again — Tilly having completed the loop, the pursuing Devilbeasts having run straight into it — they had ceased to be hunters without realizing it.

She swooped.

Her thumb came down on the fire button.

At that range, she didn’t need to check the aim.

Four beams of light sprang from the plane’s nose — not the 8mm general-purpose guns that had served adequately against ground targets but proved insufficient against anything robust — these were 20mm autocannons, four arranged symmetrically in the Phoenix’s nose, 3000 rounds per minute, a capability Roland had prioritized once Tilly raised the issue. The autocannon had been the first major weapons upgrade on a dedicated combat airframe, and here was its work.

The lead Devilbeast — large, which meant its rider was a Senior Demon — took the stream through its chest. Blood drew bright lines in the air. The Senior Demon unleashed a furious howl and threw up layered blue shields around himself, wrapping his body in what looked like solid magic-hardened armor.

The armor lasted seconds. The shells struck it in rapid sequence, and under that pressure it sparked, weakened visibly, shattered. The huge force threw the Senior Demon out of his mount’s saddle and sent him spinning downward. Without a flight-capable magic stone or a life-preservation sigil, the fall from that height was a death sentence.

The Devilbeast, riderless and panicked, tried to flee. Tilly was already adjusting her aim for another burst.

At this point, the gap between plane and Devilbeast was less than ten meters. What came back through the windscreen was blood and fragments.

She felt the joy of it land in her chest, clean and fierce and without apology.

The sky was her platform of revenge. She wanted more of it.

The large Devilbeast’s pitiful cry before it died attracted more. The demons had noticed the red iron bird — the one that moved faster and hit harder than any other — and were converging on it. By the armoring on the new Devilbeasts moving toward her, she counted at least two more Senior Demons in the field.

In the Union’s era, a Senior Demon had been a commander, the core of an assault team. Today they were ordinary battlefield troops. That fact alone said something about the scale of what the race had committed to this war.

Tilly felt no trace of fear.

What she felt was a fire in her sternum, the kind that made her precise rather than reckless.

She caught one of the Senior Demons watching her in the process of regaining an attack angle. The caution in its movements was new — the contempt was gone. She had read the shift correctly: they had stopped dismissing her. Good. A cautious enemy was still the right kind of enemy.

She licked her lips. Pushed the control stick down.

“Come on.”

“Truly — a delight for the eyes.”

Nassaupelle stood on the exterior plains above the city, watching the aerial engagement from below with a loose, appreciative tilt of his head. He chuckled softly.

Silent Disaster turned to look at him.

“You’re curious why those lowlifes interest me.” Mask turned his head; the numerous masks he wore produced a thin scraping of friction as they shifted. “I’ll tell you — it’s not those lowlifes that interest me. It’s the one human who understood the principle behind the iron birds. Don’t confuse the two.” He spread his arms wide. “The disparity between a person who grasps a principle and one who merely operates a mechanism — that gap is the entire distance between a lowlife and what I would call human. To combine a mass of dead metals into something that moves and breathes like a living creature — isn’t that a kind of fascination? I want to taste the brain that conceived it.”

Silent Disaster said nothing. His gaze returned to the battle.

“That consideration can wait.” Nassaupelle sighed with theatrical wistfulness at the lack of resonance. “What we need to address first is dispersing these nuisances.”

He produced a small core from his robes and fed it magic power. The core’s center rippled with spreading light. A moment later the ground began to tremble.

A giant stele tore out of the earth — cracked soil and black rock sliding from its surface in an avalanche, the sounds ricocheting off the surrounding terrain. Its lower end remained buried; its upper end aimed vertically at the sky. When the dust settled, the true form emerged: translucent walls revealing the interior, a dense network of meridian channels and blood vessels threaded through the full height of the structure, magic power streaming through them in a continuous and unbroken current. The whole thing looked alive. Because, in its fashion, it was.

This was not the only one.

As though responding to an unseen command, more steles were rising across the surface of the Deity of Gods.

“I will use the Battle of Divine Will to demonstrate that knowledge supersedes brute force.” Nassaupelle raised the core above his head, and its light caught his mask faces in shifting angles. “And that what they call magic power is simply one province of knowledge — not the whole of it.” His voice gained a kind of exaltation. “I, Nassaupelle, am the most praiseworthy Senior Lord this race has ever produced!”

The steles rose around him, patient and enormous, like monuments to a theorem he had not yet finished proving.

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