Gunmage

The Class 12 Fire Spitting Vessel—FSV-12 for short–was a marvel of technology. An engineering feat of the highest order, constructed solely to achieve complete naval dominance.

The flagship was built from the extremely difficult-to-process material known as deadwood, found at the fringes of the elven forests—this was virtually unburnable wood so dense and resilient, it rivaled steel in durability.

But the true terror of the FSV-12 didn't lay in its armor. It laid in its primary weapon: a flamethrower of nightmarish scale. Composed of a pressure pump the size of a house fueled by Ophris' infamous Fleureux compound—a volatile chemical mixture capable of producing an all-consuming, water-burning flame.

Its range was measured in hundreds of meters, fully capable of reducing entire fleets to floating pyres.

And now, that weapon was pointed at a single, unlucky ship—the one that had drawn the attention of over ninety rampaging sea monsters.

The rear admiral watched the scene unfold with a grim frown. The creatures had clustered around that vessel with an unnatural focus. Was it a tactical adaptation, an emerging predatory instinct? Or something far worse—were they being led?

The latter thought unsettled him. A sentient intelligence lurking beneath the depths…

No. Best to drown the problem in fire before it became something real.

"Get ready to light 'em up!" the admiral ordered.

A deep, mechanical groan rumbled through the ship as gears began to turn, slow at first, then faster, louder, almost thunderous. Within a minute, the entire warship trembled under the weight of its own power.

And then—

Fire.

A torrential stream of red-hot flames erupted across the waves, sweeping through the mass of writhing horrors and consuming the entire vessel at the center of it all.

---

Lugh hit the corridor floor just as the door behind him slammed shut.

He turned his head to see the one who had pulled him inside.

Captain Veyland.

"Why?" Lugh's voice was flat, his gray eyes narrowing as sweat dripped down his face. The question wasn't emotional—it was accusatory. This was illogical. And if there was one thing Lugh abhorred, it was impracticality.

Veyland gave him a sideways glance, his face unreadable as always. "Shut up." His voice was low, meant to be unheard by the other soldiers crammed into the space.

Then, the world turned red.

A brilliant, scorching light flooded through the cracks of the door, painting the dim corridor in a fiery glow. Even without direct exposure, the air itself was burning.

It was almost as if the summer sun had risen. However, where the sun brought warmth, a light breeze, and roused the feeling of youth, this one brought unbearable heat, thick smoke, and the risk of asphyxiation.

Lugh coughed, the first involuntary reaction he had shown so far. The sound annoyed him. He gritted his teeth, forcing his body to endure.

"Keep your heads down!" Veyland barked.

The soldiers hardly needed the order—they were already curled up, hands pressed over their ears, bracing against the overwhelming force of the attack while lessening the impact of the poisonous fumes.

Those words were directed towards Lugh more than anyone in the room.

Yet another irregularity, Lugh felt his eye twitch.

Outside, the inferno raged.

The tentacles that had bound the ship shrivelled, cooked to useless husks. The sirens, caught in the blaze, let out inhuman shrieks—a wail so piercing that some soldiers doubled over in pain, their hands pressed firmly on their ears as blood leaked from ruptured eardrums.

The baptism of fire lasted only minutes, a far cry from the FSV's usual capabilities. But to those inside, it felt like an eternity.

When the flames finally died, the searing light faded, leaving behind only thick, choking smoke.

Lugh exhaled sharply, he looked like he had gone for a swim. His black hair was soaked, sticking to his forehead. His shirt, now damp, clung uncomfortably to his small frame. Unacceptable. He would need to replace it.

Veyland pushed the door open. Smoke billowed out, met with the cold ocean breeze that swept in, bringing instant relief.

Lugh stepped outside, inhaling deeply—analyze, process, adjust. The damage was severe. Parts of the ship still smoldered, its wooden frame reduced to charred ruin, exposing the gleaming metal underneath–some parts of which had already started melting.

As for the monsters?

It wasn't worth mentioning,they were completely burned to a crisp, leaving behind nothing to bury.

---

FSV-12 – Secondary Deck

Three chairs. Three figures.

In one sat Lovainne, Major General, as well as third prince of the Ophris Kingdom.

Seated next to him was the rear admiral, the man commanding the fleet itself.

And on the last chair…

A woman.

She was heavily robed, her tan skin standing in stark contrast against the deep blue of her attire. Long, glimmering silver hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing a pair of hauntingly beautiful violet eyes. Elven eyes.

"Vaelith, is there anything wrong with that ship?"

The prince asked, his tone carefully neutral. His gaze never left the battered vessel, the one that had borne the brunt of the most recent attacks, the same one they had to scorch.

Vaelith's eyes lingered on the ship. Then, she turned them on him.

The prince shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

When she responded, her voice was as clear and melodious as sirens—the ones from legends, not the abominations that had attacked.

"I don't sense anything."

A pause.

Then the prince sighed, rubbing his temples. "So what do we do about their request?"

The admiral answered this time. "We allow it."

"Why?"

"It would destroy morale if we left them there to fend for themselves," the admiral stated matter-of-factly. "They've suffered too much already."

"Hmmm…"

An hour later, Captain Veyland received the confirmation.

His ship was now authorized to reposition—moving from the vulnerable edges of the formation to the secure center of the fleet.

Veyland stood on the deck, gazing out over the waters.

The flames had cleansed the monsters, the ship was damaged but intact, and the survivors had earned sympathy from their comrades.

A rare expression crossed his normally unreadable face.

A smirk.

"They fell for it."