Seehund-class Fleet Submarine, GVS Niflheim
The Niflheim slipped silently through the dark depths, the hushed rumble of its engine a constant reminder of the deadly game it was playing. Captain Donitz stood at the periscope, his eyes narrowing as he pondered the complex equations of warfare.
“Distance to target, Weber?” he asked, his voice carrying a trace of impatience.
“Six kilometers and closing, Captain,” replied Lieutenant Weber, his eyes glued to the charts.
Commander Leibniz looked up from the charts, his experienced eyes flicking between the plotted course and the manual readings taken from the sonar. “We must go deeper,” he said, his voice as calm as the sea outside. “Their sonar might catch us.”
Donitz nodded. “Take us to one hundred meters. Helm, adjust course to zero-two-zero. We’ll approach from their blind spot.”
The helmsman acknowledged, and the submarined began its slow descent, altering its course subtly but enough to make a difference. In the control room, navigators worked with protractors and compasses, updating their charts and calculating the submarine’s position relative to the target.
Donitz continued to monitor their approach, adjusting speed and depth, considering the angle of attack. “Speed up to ten knots. Time is of the essence.”
The orders were given and the Niflheim responded, picking up the pace.
Minutes slowed into a crawl, every second stretched out. Eventually, the distance was closed, the target locked, and the stage set.
“Captain,” Leibniz’s voice broke the silence, “We are in position.”
Captain Donitz looked at his officers, his eyes stern and resolute. “Very well,” he said, “Prepare to attack.”
The clang of metal resonated through the narrow passageways as the weapons crew sprang into action. The order to engage the Orichalcum-class battleship was given, and now every man was focused on his task, part of a well-rehearsed ballet of warfare.
“Prepare tubes one and two!” barked the weapons officer.
Sailors pulled the massive torpedoes from their racks, their muscles straining as they aligned them with the loading trays. The air filled with the smell of grease and the sounds of machinery as they locked the torpedoes into place.
“Tube one, ready!” called a sailor, his voice breaking slightly with the tension.
“Tube two, ready!” confirmed another.
The weapons officer moved between the tubes, his experienced eyes checking every detail. As the final checks were completed, the hatches were sealed and the tubes were pressurized.
Meanwhile, Captain Donitz tightened his grip around the periscope handles, holding his breath as he took one final look at the target. Memories of his previous failure against this type of battleship haunted him, a ghostly shadow that lingered in his mind. But this time, he would not fail. He could not.
“Range to target, one thousand five hundred meters. Bearing zero-four-five,” reported Lieutenant Weber.
“Flood tubes one and two,” Donitz ordered.
“Flooding tubes one and two, aye, Captain,” the weapons officer acknowledged. He began the process of flooding the tubes, adjusting valves and levers.
“Set torpedo depth at ten feet, gyro angle to zero-four-five, speed to forty knots,” Donitz continued, a steely determination in his voice.
“Torpedo depth set. Gyro angle and speed set,” Leibniz confirmed.
“Tubes one and two prepared and ready to fire, Commander,” the weapons officer reported, his voice taur with anticipation.
Donitz’s throat felt dry, thirsting for victory. He nodded and gave the order that would allow him to quench his thirst. “Fire tubes one and two.”
“Fire tubes one and two, aye!” The order was repeated, and a deafening clang resonated through the submarine, followed by a deep thrum as the torpedoes were propelled into the frigid depths.
The room was filled with a charged silence, the crew’s collective breath held as they awaited the outcome. Donitz’s hand trembled slightly as he gripped the edge of the chart table, the ghosts of his past failure whispering in his ear. But he shook them off, his gaze fixed on the tactical plot. He did everything right. Now, they could only wait for the detonations that kick off the Battle of Cartalpas.
––
Cartalpas Defense Fleet
Orichalcum-Class Battleship, HMS Solaris
Admiral Zephyron stood at the helm of the Mirishial flagship, his eyes narrowing as he gazed out over the shimmering sea. The sleek lines of Orichalcum-class battleships, all grace and power, glided across the waters. They were a spectacle, a testament to the Holy Mirishial Navy’s might, but a distant nagging concern tugged at his thoughts. Echoes of undersea specters had been detected, fading as destroyer squadrons sailed circles around the bay.
Serrath had warned of this unseen enemy – submarines.
“Admiral!” called Lieutenant Irenis, his voice tinged with urgency. “Our sonar has detected torpedo signatures, bearing two-two-five!”’
Zephyron’s heart skipped a beat. “Shift the formation!” he commanded, his voice ringing clear and authoritative. “Strengthen the armor and alert the mages! And get me a detailed report on those signatures, now!”
The bridge erupted into a flurry of activity as orders were relayed and defensive measures were initiated. The formation of ships began to adjust, with destroyers and magical frigates setting out to hunt down the submarines.
Down below, in the dimly lit chambers of the ship, mages from various races and nationalities channeled their energies. Iceberg walls began to spring from the waters, a sudden crystalline barrier between the Mirishials and the enemy torpedoes. Other teams of water mages focused their will, manipulating the currents to aid the Solaris as she conducted evasive maneuvers. Meanwhile, energy from magic gems was channeled into various runes inscribed onto the hull, enhancing the durability of the mithril-orichalcum alloy.
A loud, haunting wail reverberated through the ship as the sonar picked up the incoming torpedoes. They were close, closing fast, and numerous.
“All hands, brace for impact!” shouted Captain Harven as he echoed the Admiral’s orders.
The staggered torpedoes first eviscerated the haphazardly summoned iceberg walls, which shattered into glimmering fragments. This line of defense performed sub-optimally, unable to absorb torpedoes as well as they had during their first battles with the Gra Valkans. The remaining torpedoes continued to stream toward the Solaris, which lurched as the ship’s mechanisms and mages exerted themselves to dodge the incoming harbingers of doom.
Some were dodged, but a few found their mark, exploding beside the hull of the vessel. The Solaris shuddered violently as a direct hit landed, the shockwave rippling throughout the bridge.
“Damage report!” Zephyron demanded, clutching the rail as the ship steadied itself.
“Minor damage to the barriers, Admiral, but the Astra and Nebula have taken serious hits and are sinking!” Irenis shouted as an elf casted light healing magic on the wound on his cheekbone.
Zephyron fell into silence as he processed the loss of the two ships. Sparing little time to grieve, he jumped back into action. “Initiate rescue operations. Maintain defensive measures while the destroyers hunt down these submarines. It’s up to them to make the Gra Valkans pay for this affront.”
––
Grimnir-class Destroyer, HMS Durinbane
The destroyer squadrons of the Mirishial fleet surged forward, led by the Durinbane AND Captain Elionor. He called out commands, his voice resonating with urgency.
“Prepare depth charges! Steady the ship and mark the target coordinates,” he ordered, his green eyes narrowing at the new sonar display. He could see the vague traces of the enemy submarines, like elusive shadows beneath the waves.
“Yes, Captain,” came the immediate response from his human helmsman, who marked the coordinates and relayed them to the other ships.
The destroyers, each guided by a blend of skilled sailors and specialized mages, maneuvered with precision. The ships maintained constant communication, coordinating their positions to trap the Gra Valkans in a lethal web. The sound of depth charges being armed echoed through the decks, a grim reminder of the battle at hand.
With the Durinbane closing in on its target, Elionor didn’t hesitate. “Release depth charges now!”
The command rippled through the squadron, and the sea roiled as charge after charge was dropped into the depths. The ocean’s surface erupted in frothing turmoil, each charge a harbinger of destruction.
In the dark abyss, the Gra Valkan submarines sensed the danger. The sound of the approaching charges was a terrifying crescendo, but one that was avoided with ease. Though some of the Mirishial ships seemed to be equipped with sonar, their overall lack of equipment and experience hampered their pursuit.
The depth charges detonated, sending shockwaves through the water. Through the skill of the Gra Valkan submariners and the inexperience of the Mirishials, the Gra Valkans evaded most of the blasts, but not all. Accuracy by volume proved to be an effective strategy, and some charges found their mark. Oil and debris surfaced to waves above and a cheer erupted from the Mirishial crews, a triumphant acknowledgment of a successful hit.
Elionor’s face remained focused, his eyes still on the magical sonar. The battle was far from over. The submarines had every advantage, and now they were learning from the Mirishials’ new tactics.
“Prepare for another run,” he commanded, his voice clear and determined. “They’ll not escape us so easily. Not with the Agarthans ready to deploy their magic.”
––
In the mystical chambers of an Agarthan magic frigate, a solemn assembly of mages gathered, their faces etched with the determination that marked their culture. Before them, the scrying screen shimmered, offering a window into the depths of the sea, guided by coordinates obtained via sonar.
“We have identified three submarines, located at various depths,” intoned Commander Seris, his voice calm and logical. “Our objective is to weaken or destroy these vessels. Prepare the thermal magic.”
The room’s atmosphere was charged with a focus and severity that mirrored the nature of the task. They were in uncharted waters, applying their ancient magic to a mechanical enemy whose technology surpassed that of the Holy Mirishial Empire.
The scrying screen zoomed in on the first target, gliding stealthily through the dark waters. A mage raised his hand, channeling the freezing spell, his face reflecting an unemotional concentration.
“The vessel is at a depth of 50 meters,” he reported. I am commencing with the freezing of a volume of 1000 cubic meters around it.”
The others watched, their faces betraying no emotion as the submarine’s outline became faintly visible in the freezing water. Then, another mage began the boiling process, his eyes narrowing as he controlled the immense energies required.
“The hull is straining,” Seris observed, his voice devoid of triumph or excitement. “We must repeat the process as it attempts to dive deeper.”
Time seemed to stretch as they worked in concert, freezing and boiling the water around the submarine, each cycle of the magic causing more stress to the metal hulls.
“The vessel is descending to its maximum depth,” a mage noted, his tone even. “We cannot cast our spells effectively at such depths.”
“Continue the process,” Seris commanded. “Its hull is already significantly weakened. We must ensure its destruction.”
They watched through the scrying spell as the Gra Valkan submarine, attempting to escape the lethal magic, accelerated laterally before diving deeper into the abyss. The Agarthan mages’ focus never wavered as they continued to manipulate the water’s temperature around the beleaguered vessel.
The submarine reached a depth of 150 meters, the external pressure increasing. Small cracks began to form in the hull, spider-webbing across weakened sections. Water seeped into the compartments, with crew members aboard the doomed vessel scrambling to delay the inevitable. The submarine began to ascend, hoping to escape the certain death that they had been consigned to.
Alas, the technology and experience of the Gra Valkans failed them in the face of an enemy wielding powers they had never encountered before.
Through the scrying spell, the Agarthan officers watched dispassionately as the situation inside the submarine unraveled. Their concentration remained unbroken, even as they observed the desperation of the enemy.
The cracks in the hull widened, and the groaning grew louder, morphing into a sharp, creaking sound. The pressure became too much for the weakened metal to withstand. The hull cracked open, and water rushed in with a force nothing could withstand. The implosion was almost instantaneous. The submarine collapsed in on itself, crushed by the immense pressure of the deep.
“One target destroyed,” Seris announced, his voice as steady as ever.
The vessel was lost, reduced to twisted wreckage on the ocean floor. The Agarthans observed the destruction without triumph or sorrow, revealing only the strain of their work. They shifted their attention to the next target, rejuvenating themselves with cans of Monster and boxes of magic gems. As the next target came under their scrutiny, they found solace in the fact that their ancient ways had found a new relevance in a war that spanned both time and technology.
––
Captain Donitz, his face lined with fatigue but eyes aflame with triumph, surveyed the sonar readings that marked the chaos he had unleashed upon the enemy fleet. The torpedo strikes had done their job, and the reports confirmed sever damage to the Orichalcum-class battleships and some Rodeus-class fleet carriers. Yet, the unexpected magical countermeasures from the Mirishials had turned a simple retreat into a game of deadly cat and mouse.
Captain Donitz’s seasoned eyes narrowed. “Status report!” he commanded, his voice echoing through the hull.
“Temperature is fluctuating erratically, sir,” the helmsman hesitated, his voice catching as the submarine shuddered briefly. “It’s like… like something’s freezing and boiling the water around us.”
A cold realization dawned on Donitz. The Cartalpas Defense Fleet was employing magic, freezing vast volumes of water and then rapidly heating it. He could hear it now, a faint groaning as the metal hull of the submarine strained under the pressure of rapidly changing temperatures.
“Madar, can you detect this magic?” Donitz asked, desperation creeping into his voice.
“Yes, sir. Large magical signature, bearing two-six-zero, one kilometer behind us,” the operator replied.
“Engine room, report!” Donitz snapped.
The chief engineer’s voice crackled over the intercom, filled with concern. “Propeller efficiency is dropping sir. It’s affecting our maneuverability.”
Donitz’s mind raced. The EDI mages were attempting to trap them, hoping to cause structural damage with their magic. But, as was the case with all spellcasting on Elysia, mages’ abilities couldn’t be sustained extensively.
“Take her deeper!” Donitz ordered. “120 meters, but no deeper! Release all of our decoys! They shouldn’t be able to target us without our precise location.”
The submarine began to descend, the sound of straining metal accompanying them, the temperature fluctuations becoming less pronounced as they reached greater depths and increased their distance from the magical signature.
“Sir, we’re out of the danger zone,” the helmsman finally reported, his voice tinged with relief. “Temperature fluctuations are now minimal.”
“Seems like we lost them, and their magic lost power as they lost accuracy.” Donitz allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. They had evaded a deadly magical trap, one that could have torn the hull apart.
“Good work, men,” he commended, his voice firm. “Set course for home. We’ll let the flyboys take over now.”
Seehund-class Fleet Submarine, GVS Niflheim
The Niflheim slipped silently through the dark depths, the hushed rumble of its engine a constant reminder of the deadly game it was playing. Captain Donitz stood at the periscope, his eyes narrowing as he pondered the complex equations of warfare.
“Distance to target, Weber?” he asked, his voice carrying a trace of impatience.
“Six kilometers and closing, Captain,” replied Lieutenant Weber, his eyes glued to the charts.
Commander Leibniz looked up from the charts, his experienced eyes flicking between the plotted course and the manual readings taken from the sonar. “We must go deeper,” he said, his voice as calm as the sea outside. “Their sonar might catch us.”
Donitz nodded. “Take us to one hundred meters. Helm, adjust course to zero-two-zero. We’ll approach from their blind spot.”
The helmsman acknowledged, and the submarined began its slow descent, altering its course subtly but enough to make a difference. In the control room, navigators worked with protractors and compasses, updating their charts and calculating the submarine’s position relative to the target.
Donitz continued to monitor their approach, adjusting speed and depth, considering the angle of attack. “Speed up to ten knots. Time is of the essence.”
The orders were given and the Niflheim responded, picking up the pace.
Minutes slowed into a crawl, every second stretched out. Eventually, the distance was closed, the target locked, and the stage set.
“Captain,” Leibniz’s voice broke the silence, “We are in position.”
Captain Donitz looked at his officers, his eyes stern and resolute. “Very well,” he said, “Prepare to attack.”
The clang of metal resonated through the narrow passageways as the weapons crew sprang into action. The order to engage the Orichalcum-class battleship was given, and now every man was focused on his task, part of a well-rehearsed ballet of warfare.
“Prepare tubes one and two!” barked the weapons officer.
Sailors pulled the massive torpedoes from their racks, their muscles straining as they aligned them with the loading trays. The air filled with the smell of grease and the sounds of machinery as they locked the torpedoes into place.
“Tube one, ready!” called a sailor, his voice breaking slightly with the tension.
“Tube two, ready!” confirmed another.
The weapons officer moved between the tubes, his experienced eyes checking every detail. As the final checks were completed, the hatches were sealed and the tubes were pressurized.
Meanwhile, Captain Donitz tightened his grip around the periscope handles, holding his breath as he took one final look at the target. Memories of his previous failure against this type of battleship haunted him, a ghostly shadow that lingered in his mind. But this time, he would not fail. He could not.
“Range to target, one thousand five hundred meters. Bearing zero-four-five,” reported Lieutenant Weber.
“Flood tubes one and two,” Donitz ordered.
“Flooding tubes one and two, aye, Captain,” the weapons officer acknowledged. He began the process of flooding the tubes, adjusting valves and levers.
“Set torpedo depth at ten feet, gyro angle to zero-four-five, speed to forty knots,” Donitz continued, a steely determination in his voice.
“Torpedo depth set. Gyro angle and speed set,” Leibniz confirmed.
“Tubes one and two prepared and ready to fire, Commander,” the weapons officer reported, his voice taur with anticipation.
Donitz’s throat felt dry, thirsting for victory. He nodded and gave the order that would allow him to quench his thirst. “Fire tubes one and two.”
“Fire tubes one and two, aye!” The order was repeated, and a deafening clang resonated through the submarine, followed by a deep thrum as the torpedoes were propelled into the frigid depths.
The room was filled with a charged silence, the crew’s collective breath held as they awaited the outcome. Donitz’s hand trembled slightly as he gripped the edge of the chart table, the ghosts of his past failure whispering in his ear. But he shook them off, his gaze fixed on the tactical plot. He did everything right. Now, they could only wait for the detonations that kick off the Battle of Cartalpas.
––
Cartalpas Defense Fleet
Orichalcum-Class Battleship, HMS Solaris
Admiral Zephyron stood at the helm of the Mirishial flagship, his eyes narrowing as he gazed out over the shimmering sea. The sleek lines of Orichalcum-class battleships, all grace and power, glided across the waters. They were a spectacle, a testament to the Holy Mirishial Navy’s might, but a distant nagging concern tugged at his thoughts. Echoes of undersea specters had been detected, fading as destroyer squadrons sailed circles around the bay.
Serrath had warned of this unseen enemy – submarines.
“Admiral!” called Lieutenant Irenis, his voice tinged with urgency. “Our sonar has detected torpedo signatures, bearing two-two-five!”’
Zephyron’s heart skipped a beat. “Shift the formation!” he commanded, his voice ringing clear and authoritative. “Strengthen the armor and alert the mages! And get me a detailed report on those signatures, now!”
The bridge erupted into a flurry of activity as orders were relayed and defensive measures were initiated. The formation of ships began to adjust, with destroyers and magical frigates setting out to hunt down the submarines.
Down below, in the dimly lit chambers of the ship, mages from various races and nationalities channeled their energies. Iceberg walls began to spring from the waters, a sudden crystalline barrier between the Mirishials and the enemy torpedoes. Other teams of water mages focused their will, manipulating the currents to aid the Solaris as she conducted evasive maneuvers. Meanwhile, energy from magic gems was channeled into various runes inscribed onto the hull, enhancing the durability of the mithril-orichalcum alloy.
A loud, haunting wail reverberated through the ship as the sonar picked up the incoming torpedoes. They were close, closing fast, and numerous.
“All hands, brace for impact!” shouted Captain Harven as he echoed the Admiral’s orders.
The staggered torpedoes first eviscerated the haphazardly summoned iceberg walls, which shattered into glimmering fragments. This line of defense performed sub-optimally, unable to absorb torpedoes as well as they had during their first battles with the Gra Valkans. The remaining torpedoes continued to stream toward the Solaris, which lurched as the ship’s mechanisms and mages exerted themselves to dodge the incoming harbingers of doom.
Some were dodged, but a few found their mark, exploding beside the hull of the vessel. The Solaris shuddered violently as a direct hit landed, the shockwave rippling throughout the bridge.
“Damage report!” Zephyron demanded, clutching the rail as the ship steadied itself.
“Minor damage to the barriers, Admiral, but the Astra and Nebula have taken serious hits and are sinking!” Irenis shouted as an elf casted light healing magic on the wound on his cheekbone.
Zephyron fell into silence as he processed the loss of the two ships. Sparing little time to grieve, he jumped back into action. “Initiate rescue operations. Maintain defensive measures while the destroyers hunt down these submarines. It’s up to them to make the Gra Valkans pay for this affront.”
––
Grimnir-class Destroyer, HMS Durinbane
The destroyer squadrons of the Mirishial fleet surged forward, led by the Durinbane AND Captain Elionor. He called out commands, his voice resonating with urgency.
“Prepare depth charges! Steady the ship and mark the target coordinates,” he ordered, his green eyes narrowing at the new sonar display. He could see the vague traces of the enemy submarines, like elusive shadows beneath the waves.
“Yes, Captain,” came the immediate response from his human helmsman, who marked the coordinates and relayed them to the other ships.
The destroyers, each guided by a blend of skilled sailors and specialized mages, maneuvered with precision. The ships maintained constant communication, coordinating their positions to trap the Gra Valkans in a lethal web. The sound of depth charges being armed echoed through the decks, a grim reminder of the battle at hand.
With the Durinbane closing in on its target, Elionor didn’t hesitate. “Release depth charges now!”
The command rippled through the squadron, and the sea roiled as charge after charge was dropped into the depths. The ocean’s surface erupted in frothing turmoil, each charge a harbinger of destruction.
In the dark abyss, the Gra Valkan submarines sensed the danger. The sound of the approaching charges was a terrifying crescendo, but one that was avoided with ease. Though some of the Mirishial ships seemed to be equipped with sonar, their overall lack of equipment and experience hampered their pursuit.
The depth charges detonated, sending shockwaves through the water. Through the skill of the Gra Valkan submariners and the inexperience of the Mirishials, the Gra Valkans evaded most of the blasts, but not all. Accuracy by volume proved to be an effective strategy, and some charges found their mark. Oil and debris surfaced to waves above and a cheer erupted from the Mirishial crews, a triumphant acknowledgment of a successful hit.
Elionor’s face remained focused, his eyes still on the magical sonar. The battle was far from over. The submarines had every advantage, and now they were learning from the Mirishials’ new tactics.
“Prepare for another run,” he commanded, his voice clear and determined. “They’ll not escape us so easily. Not with the Agarthans ready to deploy their magic.”
––
In the mystical chambers of an Agarthan magic frigate, a solemn assembly of mages gathered, their faces etched with the determination that marked their culture. Before them, the scrying screen shimmered, offering a window into the depths of the sea, guided by coordinates obtained via sonar.
“We have identified three submarines, located at various depths,” intoned Commander Seris, his voice calm and logical. “Our objective is to weaken or destroy these vessels. Prepare the thermal magic.”
The room’s atmosphere was charged with a focus and severity that mirrored the nature of the task. They were in uncharted waters, applying their ancient magic to a mechanical enemy whose technology surpassed that of the Holy Mirishial Empire.
The scrying screen zoomed in on the first target, gliding stealthily through the dark waters. A mage raised his hand, channeling the freezing spell, his face reflecting an unemotional concentration.
“The vessel is at a depth of 50 meters,” he reported. I am commencing with the freezing of a volume of 1000 cubic meters around it.”
The others watched, their faces betraying no emotion as the submarine’s outline became faintly visible in the freezing water. Then, another mage began the boiling process, his eyes narrowing as he controlled the immense energies required.
“The hull is straining,” Seris observed, his voice devoid of triumph or excitement. “We must repeat the process as it attempts to dive deeper.”
Time seemed to stretch as they worked in concert, freezing and boiling the water around the submarine, each cycle of the magic causing more stress to the metal hulls.
“The vessel is descending to its maximum depth,” a mage noted, his tone even. “We cannot cast our spells effectively at such depths.”
“Continue the process,” Seris commanded. “Its hull is already significantly weakened. We must ensure its destruction.”
They watched through the scrying spell as the Gra Valkan submarine, attempting to escape the lethal magic, accelerated laterally before diving deeper into the abyss. The Agarthan mages’ focus never wavered as they continued to manipulate the water’s temperature around the beleaguered vessel.
The submarine reached a depth of 150 meters, the external pressure increasing. Small cracks began to form in the hull, spider-webbing across weakened sections. Water seeped into the compartments, with crew members aboard the doomed vessel scrambling to delay the inevitable. The submarine began to ascend, hoping to escape the certain death that they had been consigned to.
Alas, the technology and experience of the Gra Valkans failed them in the face of an enemy wielding powers they had never encountered before.
Through the scrying spell, the Agarthan officers watched dispassionately as the situation inside the submarine unraveled. Their concentration remained unbroken, even as they observed the desperation of the enemy.
The cracks in the hull widened, and the groaning grew louder, morphing into a sharp, creaking sound. The pressure became too much for the weakened metal to withstand. The hull cracked open, and water rushed in with a force nothing could withstand. The implosion was almost instantaneous. The submarine collapsed in on itself, crushed by the immense pressure of the deep.
“One target destroyed,” Seris announced, his voice as steady as ever.
The vessel was lost, reduced to twisted wreckage on the ocean floor. The Agarthans observed the destruction without triumph or sorrow, revealing only the strain of their work. They shifted their attention to the next target, rejuvenating themselves with cans of Monster and boxes of magic gems. As the next target came under their scrutiny, they found solace in the fact that their ancient ways had found a new relevance in a war that spanned both time and technology.
––
Captain Donitz, his face lined with fatigue but eyes aflame with triumph, surveyed the sonar readings that marked the chaos he had unleashed upon the enemy fleet. The torpedo strikes had done their job, and the reports confirmed sever damage to the Orichalcum-class battleships and some Rodeus-class fleet carriers. Yet, the unexpected magical countermeasures from the Mirishials had turned a simple retreat into a game of deadly cat and mouse.
Captain Donitz’s seasoned eyes narrowed. “Status report!” he commanded, his voice echoing through the hull.
“Temperature is fluctuating erratically, sir,” the helmsman hesitated, his voice catching as the submarine shuddered briefly. “It’s like… like something’s freezing and boiling the water around us.”
A cold realization dawned on Donitz. The Cartalpas Defense Fleet was employing magic, freezing vast volumes of water and then rapidly heating it. He could hear it now, a faint groaning as the metal hull of the submarine strained under the pressure of rapidly changing temperatures.
“Madar, can you detect this magic?” Donitz asked, desperation creeping into his voice.
“Yes, sir. Large magical signature, bearing two-six-zero, one kilometer behind us,” the operator replied.
“Engine room, report!” Donitz snapped.
The chief engineer’s voice crackled over the intercom, filled with concern. “Propeller efficiency is dropping sir. It’s affecting our maneuverability.”
Donitz’s mind raced. The EDI mages were attempting to trap them, hoping to cause structural damage with their magic. But, as was the case with all spellcasting on Elysia, mages’ abilities couldn’t be sustained extensively.
“Take her deeper!” Donitz ordered. “120 meters, but no deeper! Release all of our decoys! They shouldn’t be able to target us without our precise location.”
The submarine began to descend, the sound of straining metal accompanying them, the temperature fluctuations becoming less pronounced as they reached greater depths and increased their distance from the magical signature.
“Sir, we’re out of the danger zone,” the helmsman finally reported, his voice tinged with relief. “Temperature fluctuations are now minimal.”
“Seems like we lost them, and their magic lost power as they lost accuracy.” Donitz allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. They had evaded a deadly magical trap, one that could have torn the hull apart.
“Good work, men,” he commended, his voice firm. “Set course for home. We’ll let the flyboys take over now.”
