The Divine Throne of Shipgirls

The broadcast wasn't limited to the Silent Horizon. Through a network of radio, cable, and fiber optics, city after city across East Asia received the latest updates from the frontlines. These reports made their way into every household via cable television—sometimes even accompanied by battlefield photographs.

People all across East Asia gathered in front of their TV screens, waiting eagerly for the dust to settle. Waiting for a victory.

But what awaited them was a string of bad news.

"Battleship Yamashiro, defeated—sunk…"

"Battleship Andrea Doria, defeated by Abyssal flagship Monitor—sunk…"

"Abyssal flagship Monitor has sunk battleship Nevada…"

The broadcast of the "One Rider to Break a Thousand" duels continued late into the night. Eventually, a ceasefire announcement arrived from the front: both sides would rest and fight again the next day. Then came the death list—an endless roll call of fallen officers and shipgirls. It would likely take until the next day just to read them all aloud.

The propaganda machine, as always, vilified the Abyssals. Today's broadcast was no exception. Abyssal flagship Monitor was portrayed as a ridiculous villain, terrified by the heroism and sacrifice of the shipgirls facing her.

But the numbers didn't lie: Abyssal Monitor had already taken down more than ten high-level shipgirls.

It was a crushing blow to the hearts of over a billion citizens across the Nation.

Around 4 a.m., the command fleet finally rendezvoused with the Frontline forces.

The ink-black sea had been overtaken by storm clouds. In the wind and rain, the ocean was divided by a clear, invisible line.

To the north: human ships, shipgirls, and tens of thousands of carrier aircraft providing escort in the downpour.

To the south: an endless mass of Abyssal forces. Over 300,000 Abyssal shipgirls had gathered—every one of them under the command of Abyssal flagship Monitor.

Some among them were not far behind Monitor in strength: six-star Abyssal carriers, pushing level 90, and even battleship-class Λ-Ⅳ types nearing level 100. But their fatal flaw was a lack of the intelligence and commanding presence of a flagship. They were powerful brutes—no kings.

The greatest immediate threat was Abyssal Monitor.

As for Abyssal Tirpitz and Abyssal Bismarck—both were five-star max-level battleship, potentially even more dangerous than Monitor—but they had withdrawn to the side of Abyssal Barbarossa and were merely observing. For now, they were not a direct concern.

The command room stayed up all night, discussing strategies and analyzing Monitor's weaknesses.

Abyssal Monitor belonged to the heavy artillery class. She was equipped with four armaments: high-speed torpedoes, anti-air guns, radars, and deep-sea bomb throwers. A balanced powerhouse.

If she weren't level 100, her threat level would be one-tenth of what it was now.

Heavy artillery units were inherently weaker than battleships or battlecruisers.

But a fully trained, max-level Abyssal Monitor—combined with her masterful command of magic—was another story entirely.

Before they could even settle on a viable tactic, Monitor had already appeared at sea, firing her challenge cannon and openly provoking her adversaries.

Under the raging storm, the witch-like Monitor waved her hand and summoned a monstrous crocodile-like creature several meters long. Standing atop its head, she strutted back and forth, taunting with wild arrogance.

Someone had to answer the challenge.

Countless cameras were fixed on this moment. All of East Asia was watching.

There was no option to retreat.

But the risk was enormous. No Commander would so easily send their shipgirl into such peril unless there was no other choice.

If it were just their own lives on the line, they'd throw themselves in without hesitation.

But their shipgirls—those were like lovers, sisters, daughters. Failing to protect them was already guilt enough. Sending them into near-certain death was something many couldn't stomach.

Over a thousand Commanders stood in the command hall. All of them commanded fully trained shipgirls. Yet silence reigned.

Last night, Monitor had already cut down six max-level main fleet shipgirls.

To put it bluntly, the Frontline forces had lost its nerve.

Fleet Admiral Gorou swept his gaze across the room.

No one met his eyes.

No one volunteered.

He was not the type to hold a lottery or ask, "Who dares take up the challenge?"

The old man simply raised a hand and beckoned to the girl behind him—Indiana.

"Indiana, you—"

A voice suddenly rang out from outside.

"Someone has already stepped forward!"

[End of Chapter]

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