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Chapter Text

Waking up sucks. It always has, and it always will. There is no universe where suddenly regaining consciousness is pleasant. It's always too bright, too loud, or too goddamn confusing.

Unfortunately for me, today is an extra special level of what-the-actual-fuckery because the moment my mind stirs, I realize something is terribly wrong.

First off—my body feels off. Not like "I slept weird, and now my neck is doing the Exorcist twist" kind of off. No, this is something far worse.

I feel huge. Heavy. And not in the "ate too much pizza" way. No, this is existentially heavy, like I've suddenly become a part of the Earth's tectonic system.

Then there's the vibration. A constant, deep thrumming running through me—like an idling engine. Or a spaceship's warp core.

Oh. And I can see things.

Not see in the normal, "Oh wow, look at that nice blue sky" way, but in a highly unsettling, I-might-be-a-cybernetic-abomination kind of way.

Data.

Numbers.

Measurements.

A never-ending stream of information scrolling through my brain like I'm hooked up to the goddamn Matrix.


Ocean Depth: 110 meters
Wind Speed: 16 knots
Water Temperature: 21°C
Sonar Contact: 12 unknown vessels detected
Threat Level: Low


What. The. Hell.

My brain tries to rationalize. Maybe I'm dreaming? Maybe I got too drunk and accidentally joined the navy? Maybe I'm in some kind of high-tech VR simulation?

Yeah, that last one seems plausible. I must've been abducted by Elon Musk and shoved into some next-gen military AI experiment.

Elon, you bastard, I did not sign up for this.

I attempt to take a deep breath—to calm myself down.

Nothing happens.

No inhale. No exhale.

Oh. Right.

I don't have lungs.

A sense of creeping horror slithers down my spine—or at least, where my spine should be—because suddenly, a very real, very horrifying thought crosses my mind.

What if I don't have a body?

Okay. Okay. No need to panic. Let's just, uh, assess the situation.

I try to move.

My body—or whatever it is—shifts.

And that's when things get even weirder.

I don't feel arms. I don't feel legs. But I do feel something massive responding to my thoughts.

Something enormous.

Something far beyond human.

My entire form glides through the water. Effortless. Smooth. Silent.

The ocean parts around me like I'm a goddamn sea monster.

My brain reels. What the hell am I?

Desperate for answers, I focus on the data still flowing into my mind. And just like that—like a damn Google search on steroids—my brain coughs up some terrifying information.


MENTAL MODEL: MUSASHI (FLEET OF FOG) ACTIVATED
CLASSIFICATION: SUPER BATTLESHIP
ARMAMENTS: WAVE-MOTION CANNONS, HEAVY LASER TURRETS, MULTI-LAYERED SHIELDING
STEALTH MODE: ENGAGED
STATUS: FULL OPERATIONAL CAPACITY


…Wait.

Musashi?

As in Battleship Musashi?

As in World War II's most ridiculously overcompensating hunk of floating steel?

No. No, no, no. This has to be a mistake.

I frantically scan through my own status screen—which, by the way, is just floating in my brain like I'm inside a sci-fi RPG menu—and the more I read, the more my soul leaves my body.

Because this isn't just any Musashi.

This is Fleet of Fog Musashi.

Which means I'm not some regular battleship. I'm a goddamn alien-tier war machine.

Oh.

Oh.

Okay. Okay. Let's, uh, calmly analyze the situation.

Pros:

• I'm nigh indestructible.
• I have sci-fi weapons that make nukes look like party poppers.
• I can apparently turn invisible.
• I probably don't have to pay taxes.

Cons:

• I am no longer human.
• I AM A FUCKING WARSHIP.
• I don't know where I am.
• I have no idea how I got here.

So yeah. Bit of a mixed bag.

I glance around—or, well, mentally scan my surroundings. And that's when I see her.

Or rather… me.

I'm standing inside a bridge.

A reflection in the glass.

It's a woman. A very tall, very muscular, very anime-looking woman with long silver hair and red eyes that practically scream "I will step on you and you will thank me."

And the outfit—oh god, the outfit.

It's barely a uniform. More like a stripper version of a naval admiral's coat, held together by sheer willpower and some very generous anime physics.

I blink.

She blinks.

I move, and the reflection moves with me.

Oh.

Oh no.

I am her.

I HAVE A HOT ANIME BODY.

Somewhere in the depths of my probably nonexistent soul, I feel a tiny, primal urge to scream.

But then a different, much dumber thought enters my head.

I look hot as fuck.

Okay, look.

If you suddenly woke up as a god-tier battleship, armed with alien tech, laser cannons, and a body that looks like a one-woman military-grade thirst trap, what would your first course of action be?

Would you:

1. Try to figure out what the hell happened?
2. Panic like a normal person?
3. Attempt to contact civilization?

If you answered anything other than "Get naked and sunbathe," then congratulations, you have far more self-control than I do.

Because right now? That's exactly what I'm doing.

With an entirely unapologetic smirk, I grab the edges of my already scandalously small outfit and—without a single ounce of shame—toss it aside like yesterday's laundry.

The warm ocean breeze caresses my bare skin, and let me tell you, it feels divine.

My body—this ridiculously well-crafted anime war goddess of a form—is absolutely flawless.

Like, I'm talking beyond supermodel levels of perfection.

No scars. No blemishes. Not even a single hair out of place.

It's almost unnerving how smooth I am. My skin? Silky. My proportions? Anatomically impossible. My assets? Weapons of mass distraction.

It's like whoever designed me went, "What if we made war... sexy?" And bam, here I am.

And since I'm apparently a living war machine now, I might as well embrace the role in the most glorious, self-indulgent, and completely unnecessary way possible.

Which is why I gracefully step onto the warm deck of my own battleship hull—because oh yeah, surprise, I'm also a giant freaking warship—and stretch out under the blazing sun.

I'm completely exposed. Completely shameless.

And honestly? I don't care.

I am Musashi.

The strongest battleship in history.

And right now? I deserve a goddamn break.

With a content sigh, I close my eyes, letting the heat of the sun wash over me.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, there's probably a voice screaming "THIS IS A BAD IDEA, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

But that voice? Irrelevant.

Right now, I am a floating fortress of destruction… on vacation.

What's the worst that could happen?

I am just starting to drift into a peaceful, sun-drenched state of absolute relaxation when—

BZZT!

A sharp, jarring noise rips through my head.

My interface—which I had been blissfully ignoring—suddenly flares to life like a damn Christmas tree.

Ugh. What now?

I groan, very unwillingly cracking an eye open.

A transmission is coming through.

Japanese military radio chatter.

…Oh.

I frown.

At first, I just let it play in the background—too comfortable to actually care.

I mean. Of course, the military is freaking out about something.

But then—

"Yamato under attack! We're taking fire! Need support immediately!"

Wait.

What.

My eyes snap open.

I sit up so fast that I nearly fall off my own deck—which would be a very embarrassing way to die for an invincible war machine.

Did I just hear that right?

Yamato?

I blink rapidly, suddenly very awake, as I frantically check the date on my interface.


DATE: APRIL 7, 1945


My blood—if I even have blood anymore—runs ice cold.

I check my location.


LOCATION: OFF THE COAST OF OKINAWA


No. No, no, no.

A sickening realization washes over me.

I know this day.

I know this battle.

This is Operation Ten-Go.

This is the day Yamato sinks.

I feel like I just got punched in the gut—if I even have a gut.

The images from my past life flash through my mind.

History books. Documentaries. Black-and-white photos of a doomed super battleship, surrounded by endless waves of American carrier planes, desperately fighting against a hopeless fate.

This is my old world.

My first life.

And Yamato—the original Yamato—is about to die.

I immediately pull up a visual feed from one of my drones—because oh yeah, turns out I have spy drones now.

The screen materializes before me, showing real-time footage of the battlefield.

And what I see makes my stomach drop.

Yamato.

She's there.

Massive. Majestic. Proud.

And completely surrounded by American aircraft.

Explosions ripple across her hull. Towering columns of smoke and fire rise into the sky. Her anti-air guns blaze desperately, but there are just too many enemy planes.

She's fighting, but she's dying.

And if history is correct, she won't last much longer.

My hands—or whatever I have that functions as hands—clench.

This isn't fair.

This isn't right.

She doesn't deserve this.

I am Musashi, a near-invincible super battleship...

I can intervene.

I can save her.

A wild, reckless idea surges through my mind.

What if…

What if I change history?

What if I refuse to let Yamato die?

What if I fight?

I glance down at myself—at my nude, sunbathing form, still glowing from the warmth of the sun.

I sigh.

Well, so much for my vacation.

With a reluctant groan, I push myself up, stretching my arms above my head one last time.

Then, with the dramatic flair of a main character in an anime, I grab my discarded coat and whip it over my shoulders.

I don't bother buttoning it up properly—because let's be real, it was never meant to be fully worn in the first place.

Instead, I strike a pose, because if I'm about to go break the timeline, I might as well look hot while doing it.

Taking a deep breath—even though I don't actually need to breathe—I send a single command through my interface.


ACTIVATING FULL COMBAT MODE.


And just like that—

The most powerful battleship in history sets sail.

And this time, Yamato will not fall.

Chapter Text

You know, waking up as an all-powerful war machine is one thing. Realizing that I'm also piloting myself while simultaneously being myself? That's a whole new level of what the hell is my life that I did not sign up for.

Yet here I am—Musashi, the Fleet of Fog's ridiculously overpowered battleship, sailing across the Pacific like an eldritch horror disguised as an oversized fashion model in a scandalous military uniform. And let me tell you, nothing says badass like skimming across the ocean at speeds that should be illegal, physics be damned.

Waves part violently before me, the sheer force of my momentum kicking up walls of seawater as I close in on the battlefield. My interface floods me with real-time updates—because, apparently, my brain now works like a supercomputer and I instinctively understand every bit of tactical data flashing across my vision.

• Yamato's hull? Absolutely getting wrecked.
• Escort ships? More like sinking escort ships.
• Enemy aircraft? A whole damn swarm.

I take a deep breath, bracing myself mentally—because what else am I going to do? Just let history repeat itself? Hell no. Not on my watch. This time, the Sea Demon fights back.

Of course, being the absolute unit that I am, I don't exactly go unnoticed. American pilots—sharp as ever—immediately spot my very Japanese design and start having a collective crisis.

Radio chatter crackles through my interface:

"Jesus, what the hell is that?!"

"Is that another Yamato-class? No way, intel never said Japan had another one operational!"

"It's moving way too fast—impossible! Is it a new type of warship?"

I smirk, flexing my fingers—because, apparently, I can do that while also being a ship. Weird, right? Don't think about it too hard, Musashi.

A squadron of Hellcats and Avengers break off from their attack runs on Yamato, pivoting toward me with the grace of seasoned pilots who have no idea they just picked a fight with a Fleet of Fog warship. Poor bastards.

Oh, you sweet summer children. You have no idea what's coming.

The first wave doesn't hesitate. Machine guns rattle, rockets streak through the sky, and—

"Deploy Anti-Air Grid."


—BOOM.


The moment the words leave my mouth, all hell breaks loose—for them, not me.

Every single one of my hidden AA systems comes to life, and let me tell you, it's not just some run-of-the-mill flak barrage. Hundreds of micro-missiles erupt from compartments like a swarm of pissed-off hornets, locking onto targets with surgical precision. And then? Lasers.

Yes, lasers. Because apparently, I'm not just a battleship—I'm a damn alien war machine from the future. Bright crimson beams scythe through the sky, vaporizing planes before they even realize they're being targeted.

The American radio chatter instantly shifts from confusion to full-blown panic:

"What the hell?!"

"That ship's tearing through us! Nothing's hitting her!"

"Mayday, Mayday, we're dropping like flies!"

I feel a little bad—just a little. But mostly, I feel awesome.

Within seconds, the first wave is completely wiped out. Not a single plane gets close enough to even think about touching me.

I let out a long, satisfied sigh, placing a hand on my hip as I watch the wreckage rain down into the sea.

"Ahhh… I could get used to this."

Of course, the Americans aren't just going to take that lying down. No, they're already scrambling to figure out what the hell just happened.

More radio chatter floods my interface:

"Command, we've got an unidentified warship engaging our air units—she's shredding everything we send at her!"

"We need reinforcements! Whatever that thing is, it's not normal!"

Well, duh.

My sensors pick up a second wave incoming—this time, they're sending in a coordinated attack. Dive bombers, torpedo bombers, and more Hellcats, all coming in from multiple angles.

Smart. Not smart enough, but at least they're trying.

I roll my shoulders, stretching a little before giving my next command: "Activate Phasic Barrier."

A shimmering blue energy field flares to life around me, distorting the air as it forms an impenetrable shield. The first torpedo streaks in—and bounces off like a damn pebble against glass.

I don't even flinch as explosions ripple harmlessly across my barrier. The dive bombers? Their payloads detonate, but I don't feel a thing.

"Oh, that's cute," I murmur, watching the smoke clear. "You guys really thought that would work?"

I flick my wrist—because apparently, that's how I command ship functions now—and unleash a counterattack that makes the last one look like child's play.

Missiles streak out in perfect unison, forming an intricate web of destruction as they hunt down their targets with lethal accuracy. The sky turns into a fireworks show of burning aircraft and emergency parachutes.

"Alright," I mutter, cracking my knuckles. "Time to let Yamato know she's not alone in this fight."

I engage my engines at full power, slicing through the ocean with a speed no battleship should ever be capable of, heading straight toward Yamato's embattled position.

This time, history isn't going to repeat itself.

This time, we're taking the fight back to the enemy.

Admiral Marc Mitscher stood on the bridge of the USS Bunker Hill, his eyes fixed on the endless expanse of ocean before him. The battle was unfolding as expected—or at least, it had been. Yamato, the last behemoth of Japan's doomed fleet, was under relentless assault. The swarm of Avengers and Hellcats had been sent to do what the entire Pacific Fleet had been built for: sink the pride of the Imperial Navy.

Everything had been going according to plan.

Until it wasn't.

"Sir, urgent report from the pilots," a radio operator called out, his voice tight with barely contained confusion. "They've spotted another battleship."

Mitscher frowned. Another one? Impossible. Intelligence had been clear—Japan had no remaining Yamato-class battleships. He took the receiver. "Repeat that, pilot. You've spotted what?"

Static crackled for a moment, then a harried voice burst through. "Sir, we've got an unidentified Japanese warship, probably a Yamato class, moving at speeds that—Jesus, sir, it's faster than a cruiser!"

Mitscher's grip on the receiver tightened. "Faster than a cruiser? Are you sure you're not misreading?"

"No way, sir! It's—I don't even know how to explain it. It's barreling toward us like nothing I've ever seen! We're trying to make a strafing run, but…"

The line was suddenly filled with shouts and gunfire. Then another voice cut in—this one far more panicked. "Sir! Our shots aren't doing a damn thing! Bullets, bombs, torpedoes—it's like they're just bouncing off!"

Mitscher's stomach twisted. That wasn't possible. Even Yamato, with all her armor, could be taken down with enough firepower. No ship was indestructible.

"Sir, what do we do?! This thing—it's shooting back with colorful lights!"

Mitscher froze. "Colorful lights?"

"Yes, sir! Bright red beams—just took out half my squadron in a blink!"

The radio exploded with frantic cries of pilots screaming over one another.

"Mayday, mayday! I've lost my wingman!"

"It's cutting through us like a goddamn blowtorch!"

"I'm hit! Oh God, I'm on fire!"

Then—silence.

Mitscher felt the weight in his chest grow heavier. He turned to his staff. "Pull up all reconnaissance reports—immediately. I want every detail on that ship."

One of his officers, Commander William Marshall, shook his head. "Sir, there's nothing. No reports of any operational Yamato-class outside of Yamato herself."

Mitscher's lips pressed into a hard line. He turned back to the radio. "Pilot, confirm visual on the enemy ship. Is it another Yamato?"

A different voice came through—one that sounded as though the man had seen a ghost. "Sir… it looks like Musashi."

For a moment, the entire bridge was silent. Then murmurs broke out among the officers. Musashi? The sister ship of Yamato? But Musashi had been sunk in the Philippines, obliterated by wave after wave of American bombers. There was no way—

Mitscher's mind raced. He had been there when Musashi met her fate. The reports had been clear: torpedoes, bombs, an entire day of sustained attacks had finally put her under. There had been no survivors.

And yet, his men were seeing her now.

"Sir," the radio operator whispered, voice shaking. "Orders?"

Mitscher clenched his jaw. This wasn't superstition, and he wasn't a man prone to irrationality. Ghost ships didn't exist—but something was out there. Something far worse than another battleship.

He made his decision. "Send everything we have at it."

Marshall hesitated. "Sir?"

"You heard me, Commander. Everything. If it truly is Musashi, we can't risk whatever madness brought her back. We sink her again."

A rapid succession of orders was issued. Within minutes, the remaining squadrons were rerouted. Over a hundred aircraft turned their sights on the impossible warship that shouldn't exist.

From the bridge, Mitscher listened to the pilots as they engaged.

"There she is! Holy hell, she's huge!"

"Locking onto target—dropping bombs"

"She's—wait, what the hell? She's dodging?!"

"A battleship shouldn't be able to move like that!"

Mitscher gritted his teeth. Battleships did not dodge. Not at these speeds. Not ever.

The radio burst with more chaos. "Our bombs just—bounced off!"

"I've never seen armor like this! Even Yamato wasn't this tough!"

"What kind of ship is this?!"

And then, the final, chilling words from a panicked pilot: "Sir, we're not fighting a battleship. We're fighting a monster."

Mitscher exhaled slowly.

So, this was it.

His men were dying against something that should have been impossible.

He turned to his officers, expression grim. "Get me a direct line to the fleet. Tell them the situation has changed."

Marshall swallowed hard. "What should I tell them, sir?"

Mitscher let out a breath. "Tell them…" He hesitated for just a second before finishing, "The Japanese have something beyond anything we've ever seen."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

I don't wanna say I'm having too much fun, but I'm absolutely having too much fun.

The moment my first two shots disappear over the horizon—where they do some very impolite things to the American fleet that I'm totally not looking at right now—I decide it's time to stop holding back. You see, as much as I love a good, dramatic moment, there's something incredibly satisfying about sheer, overwhelming firepower. And let's be real, if you're a 263-meter-long super-battleship with energy weapons that make conventional physics cry, you use them.

Command Input: Main Cannons – Continuous Fire Mode.

The moment I give the order, my entire hull thrums with power. The air around me vibrates as golden light gathers in my triple-barreled main cannons.

I plant my feet firmly on my deck—then, because I'm extra like that, I jump straight onto the top of my forward turret.

You heard me.

I stand on my own damn gun.

Because if I'm going to annihilate an entire fleet, I might as well look absolutely fabulous doing it.

The moment my boots hit steel, my cannons unleash hell.

Admiral Marc Mitscher had seen a lot in his naval career. Battleship duels, surprise attacks, kamikazes—hell, he had even seen torpedoes miss by inches. But nothing, nothing prepared him for this.

Aboard the USS Bunker Hill, his flagship, the bridge was full of chaos, voices, alarms, and the distant thudding of anti-aircraft guns that were utterly useless against whatever the hell was happening out there.

"Report!" Mitscher barked, gripping the edge of the table as if his white-knuckled hold could keep the world from falling apart.

Commander James Caldwell, his chief of staff, wiped a layer of sweat from his forehead. His usually crisp uniform looked like he had just run a marathon through a typhoon. "Sir… Sir, it's still firing!"

"No shit, Caldwell! I have eyes!"

He did. And they were locked onto the radar screen, which, until about ten minutes ago, had displayed a confident formation of Task Force 58, the mightiest naval force in history. Now? It looked like someone was using an eraser on their fleet.

USS Essex and Randolph had been the first to go.

Then USS Cabot vanished under another shot—no explosion, just a bright flash, then nothing but debris where a fleet carrier had been.

Now the golden beams—there were more of them—were raining down like the wrath of God, and Mitscher was realizing, with a growing horror, that no amount of military strategy could counteract a battleship that fired goddamn beams of light from 320 kilometers away.

The intercom crackled. "SIR, USS Canberra just got hit! She's breaking up! We—" Static.

Mitscher didn't even bother asking if there were survivors. At this point, the best anyone could hope for was a quick death.

Lieutenant Gerald Innes, the radar officer, was staring at his screen, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. "Sir… The Louisville… She's gone."

"Define 'gone,' Lieutenant."

Innes swallowed. "Like… no wreckage, sir. The beam hit her broadside, and she just… disintegrated."

Mitscher exhaled slowly through his nose. "What else?"

Innes gulped. "The Baltimore's been crippled. Destroyers Hickox and Benham… gone. The Houston's on fire. USS Miami's breaking apart. It's—it's cutting through us like paper."

A new voice, high-pitched with sheer panic, joined the chorus of the damned on the bridge. "Sir, USS Bataan is sinking! The Princeton just took a direct hit! Oh God—"

Another explosion in the distance. Through the bridge's windows, Mitscher could see one of his heavy cruisers—maybe Pittsburgh?—tilting at a sickening angle, already halfway underwater.

He turned back to the map, watching as golden spears of light arced across the sky.

Commander Caldwell, his face pale, muttered under his breath. "This isn't war… This is slaughter."

Mitscher's jaw tightened. "How many?"

Caldwell knew exactly what he was asking. "So far? Two fleet carriers gone. Two light carriers crippled. At least three heavy cruisers destroyed. Six destroyers… probably more. It's hard to count when they're just—disappearing."

It was chaos. The mightiest fleet the world had ever assembled was being erased before his very eyes.

Ships didn't just vanish like that! There were no shells, no torpedoes, no dive bombers—just those golden beams that rained from the heavens like the wrath of some vengeful god.

"Sir, the pilots are reporting in!"

Mitscher turned, barely able to process his own words. "What did they see?"

The communications officer's face was pale as death. His hand was shaking as he held his headphones. "Sir, they say—they say they don't see any crew on the enemy ship."

A dead silence fell over the bridge. Even the alarms seemed quieter.

"No crew?" Mitscher repeated, his voice hoarse.

"No crew, sir. Just—just one person. One woman."

Mitscher blinked. "You mean to tell me… one person is doing all of this?"

The officer swallowed hard, sweat dripping down his forehead. "They—they said she's standing on top of the turret. Just standing there. And sir…"

Mitscher felt something in his brain break.

"Excuse me?"

"She's on top of a turret, sir! Just… standing there! Laughing!"

The officer's voice dropped into an incredulous whisper. "They said she—she looks like she walked out of some kind of… bad fantasy novel."

Mitscher closed his eyes. "Lieutenant, I have neither the patience nor the time for jokes."

"I'm not joking, sir!" The officer was frantic now. "They said she has long white hair, and she's wearing a—uh—a dress that—"

He hesitated.

Mitscher narrowed his eyes. "Say it."

The officer cringed. "…Sir, the pilots say it's something even a whore wouldn't wear."

Dead silence.

Mitscher's eye closed. "God help us."

A new report came in over the intercom, this time from one of the captains.

"Sir! We can't get close! It's—it's not just the range, they knows where we are! Every time we try to maneuver, they're already aiming!"

Before Mitscher could respond, another officer turned in horror. "Sir! USS Mobile just took a direct hit!"

Outside, another golden beam sliced through the sky, striking the light cruiser dead center. It didn't even explode—it just ceased to exist. One moment, Mobile was there. The next, there was nothing but water and debris.

The bridge crew watched in stunned silence.

Mitscher set his jaw. "What ships are left operational?"

Caldwell hesitated. "…The Bunker Hill, for now. The Ticonderoga is still afloat but heavily damaged. USS Intrepid is on fire, and we've lost contact with USS San Diego and USS Vincennes."

Mitscher exhaled slowly. He didn't want to believe it. He couldn't believe it. A battleship firing golden beams that never missed? That had no crew? That was commanded by some—some woman straight out of a pervert's fever dream?

But reality didn't care about what he wanted to believe.

They Mystery Yamato. She was sniping them from 320 kilometers away. And if she could do that, then she must have real-time reconnaissance on their fleet.

Mitscher's heart turned to ice.

"She's got eyes on us," he murmured. "She must have a reconnaissance plane above us. That's the only explanation."

Commander James Caldwell, his chief of staff, gave him a wild look. "Sir, what do we do?"

Mitscher took a deep, shaky breath. Then, with a grimace of pure disgust, he said the words that shattered his pride into a thousand pieces.

"We withdraw our planes. All of them."

A stunned silence filled the bridge.

Caldwell blinked. "Sir—"

Mitscher turned, his expression stone. "If she has a recon plane up there, then she knows exactly where every single one of our ships is. Every plane we send up is just going to die. We can't fight something like that. We withdraw."

The bridge was deathly quiet as the realization sank in.

Someone hesitated, then asked, "Sir… should we raise the white flag?"

Mitscher clenched his fists so tightly his nails nearly cut into his palms. He had never surrendered before. Never. But this wasn't a fight anymore. It wasn't even a battle.

It was slaughter.

He closed his eyes, took one last breath, then gave the order.

"Raise the white flag."

No one spoke.

No one questioned him.

The last of the American planes vanished over the horizon, their silhouettes barely visible against the setting sun. A heavy silence fell over the Japanese fleet, broken only by the radio chatter. Even the mighty Yamato, pride of the Imperial Japanese Navy, seemed to exhale a breath of relief as the sky emptied of enemy aircraft.

But the unease in the crew did not fade.

Because she was still there.

The mystery ship.

Sailing silently into their formation, effortlessly cutting through the water like a phantom. She looked like Yamato, but she was not Yamato. Her hull bore the same sleek, imposing shape, but glowing red markings ran across her armor like veins of molten steel, pulsing in an unnatural rhythm. And at her bow was a sigil no one had ever seen before. It pulsed with life—almost as if the ship herself was alive.

Murmurs swept through the crew of the Japanese fleet. Officers exchanged uncertain glances. Sailors whispered amongst themselves, gripping the cold steel of the railing as they watched the ghostly battleship approach. Some made the sign of protection, muttering prayers under their breath. Others clenched their fists, waiting for the unknown to reveal itself.

Then the radio crackled.

The voice that came through was female—calm, strong, and cold as steel.

"I am Musashi, Flagship of the Fog."

A chill ran through the bridge of Yamato.

"Sister."

Vice Admiral Ito Shigeru felt his breath hitch. The way she spoke—she wasn't addressing the fleet. She wasn't even addressing the officers aboard Yamato.

She was speaking to the ship itself.

Silence. Every man on the bridge turned to look at one another, their confusion mirroring their commander's.

"Why do you carry humans on board?"

A breathless murmur swept through the bridge. The Admiral swallowed, trying to find his voice.

"This is Vice Admiral Ito Shigeru, commanding officer of the Yamato." His voice, though steady, held a note of trepidation. "You… claim to be Musashi? But our Musashi was lost in battle."

There was a pause. Then came the response—clipped, precise, almost mechanical in tone.

"That vessel is irrelevant."

The Admiral felt his stomach twist.

Before he could gather his thoughts, the radio crackled again.

"I am coming aboard."

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the bridge.

Aboard?

Several officers turned to one another in alarm. Captain Ariga, standing beside the Admiral, immediately grabbed the receiver. "Identify yourself! You say you are Musashi, but you are no ship of the Imperial Japanese Navy! If you are coming aboard, state your purpose!"

Silence. Then, once more, that voice.

"Sister requires answers. I will obtain them personally."

Chapter Text

The sea is calm.

Too calm, considering the absolute disaster I just walked into.

The last of the American planes have retreated into the distance, their formations breaking apart as they limp back to their carriers, no doubt wondering what the hell just happened. After all, it's not every day that your squadrons get annihilated from over three hundred kilometers away by some unknown force.

Good. That should buy me some time to sort this mess out.

And by 'mess,' I mean this. Me, walking on water—yes, actually walking on water, because why the hell not—towards Yamato. A sight that has left an entire fleet of Japanese sailors staring at me like I'm some combination of Amaterasu reborn and a particularly scandalous street performer.

I can hear the whispers. I can see the expressions. Some are terrified, others awestruck, and a few, bless their poor, war-weary souls, are very clearly trying not to stare too hard at the fact that my outfit is about three layers less than anything remotely appropriate for this era.

Whatever. I've got more important things to deal with.

I rise in air over my klein field made steps and step onto Yamato's deck. The flagship of the Imperial Japanese Navy. My 'sister.'

I should feel something. Nostalgia? Pride? A sense of duty? Instead, all I feel is a deep, bone-deep exhaustion. And maybe, just maybe, the ghost of an incoming migraine. Now I feel that jumping in to save my "sister" was a bit impulsive, and the mess is too deep to sort out easily.

Vice Admiral Seiichi Itō, the guy whom Tokyo threw to command the suicide mission of the Operation Ten-Go is standing before me, flanked by officers who look as though they've just witnessed a ghost manifest in front of them. Which, to be fair, isn't far from the truth.

He's an older man, weary and hardened by war, but still holding onto the weight of his duty. His eyes narrow as he assesses me, struggling between disbelief and military discipline.

"Who… what are you?" he finally asks, his voice careful. "Are you Musashi?"

Ah. That's the question, isn't it?

"I am Musashi," I reply evenly. "Supreme Flagship of the Fog." I gesture behind me, where my ship—my real body—floats ominously, sleek, alien, and pulsating with red sigils no human battleship should ever have. "This vessel is but an extension of myself." Then I turn slightly, my gaze shifting to Yamato beneath my feet. "And this ship is my sister."

Silence.

Dead silence.

Itō's face tightens as he processes my words, and I can see the tension in the men around him. Some are confused. Others—those who still hold onto old beliefs of ships having souls—seem disturbed. Yamato is a symbol. Yamato is their pride. And here I am, addressing her as if she were a prisoner.

I can hear the whispers. Someone mutters something about a 'kami.' Another, something about a 'demon.' I ignore them.

Then, suddenly, a man steps forward.

I identify him as the rear admiral and commander of Yamato from the picture I saw in the Yamato Museum in Kure, Kosaku Aruga.

He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't fumble for words. Instead, he kneels before me.

And I freeze.

"Musashi…" he says, his voice strained, his hands clenched into fists. "If you truly are the embodiment of the great battleship Musashi, then I beg you—not for us, not for the Emperor, but for the people of the ancient land of Yamato—help us."

I stare at him.

This is not what I expected.

I expected hostility. I expected confusion. I even expected some ridiculous attempt to capture me for interrogation. But this? A plea—not for military victory, not for glory, but for the people?

My glowing red eyes sweep over the deck, over the faces of these men who were prepared to die. No, not just prepared. Eager. They all knew Ten-Go was a suicide mission. They knew they were marching towards death, and yet they went anyway, because that was the only path left to them.

And now… now they are looking at me with something else.

Hope.

Damn it.

I inhale, or at least go through the motions. It's not like I need oxygen, but habits die hard.

"Your war is futile," I say at last. "You fight against a force that you cannot defeat. Yet…" I pause, my voice softer. "You fight not for yourselves, but for those who have no voice in this conflict."

And that's the problem, isn't it?

Because as much as I don't want Japan to lose, I also don't want Japan to win.

Not like this.

The Japan of 1945 is not the Japan I love. The atrocities in China, the massacres in the Philippines, the horrors of Unit 731 in Manchuria—every dark stain of imperial ambition sickens me.

The military regime? The fanatical nationalism? The absolute refusal to surrender, even at the cost of innocent lives? If this version of Japan wins, then nothing changes. The rot at its core remains.

And yet…

If they lose, they will suffer. Horrifically. The firebombings, the atomic bombs, the occupation that will strangle their spirit for decades. The years under the American boots, that my grandfather hated.

I can't accept that either.

I close my eyes. My mind, my core processing unit—whatever I am now—wrestles with something beyond programming. Beyond logic.

I should be above this. The Fog does not concern itself with human wars. Our purpose was once to control the seas, not to serve nations.

And yet… the name I carry is a human name.

Musashi.

A name of honor. A name of sacrifice. A legacy.

The ancient land of Yamato, a name that predates the empire, calls to something deep within me. Something human.

I exhale and open my eyes, my gaze locking onto Itō's.

"The military," I say, voice firm, "must not control Japan."

His expression flickers with something unreadable. "What are you saying?"

"I am saying that if Japan is to survive, it cannot remain as it is now. Your government is leading you to ruin. If I help you… then things must change."

Murmurs break out among the officers. Some look horrified, others contemplative.

Itō's eyes narrow. "That is treason."

I tilt my head, unamused. "So is getting annihilated in a suicidal operation that does nothing but prove how stubborn you are."

Silence again.

I let my words sink in.

I do not want Japan to suffer. I do not want them to be crushed beneath the weight of American dominance. But I also refuse to support a war machine built on the suffering of innocents.

If I intervene, I will do so on my own terms.

For the people, not the empire.

For Yamato, not the military.

Vice Admiral Seiichi Itō stood rigid. He had prepared to die this day. Every officer, every sailor aboard Yamato had prepared to die. And yet, here they stood, very much alive, because of her.

Musashi—or the being that claimed to be her—watched them with those golden eyes, her expression unreadable. She had torn apart the American air assault like a divine force, and the spears of light she had cast into the sky had silenced the enemy's fury. Whatever she had done to the American fleet beyond the horizon had been decisive enough to force their retreat. Itō had seen the divine wrath in her display of power, and it was terrifying.

And now, she demanded a choice.

Itō knew she was right. He had known it for some time. Even before stepping aboard Yamato for this final, hopeless mission, he had known that the war was unwinnable. Japan was being strangled, not just by American steel and fire but by the rigid arrogance of the fools in Tokyo, who clung to their delusions of honor while the world collapsed around them.

He was a man of the navy and certainly couldn't understand whatever ti was that the Soviets were planning. The non-aggression pact held for now, but that could change in an instant. The Americans had made it clear they would not allow Japan a respectable peace. No, they would crush the Empire completely. And still, the men in Tokyo refused to see reality, demanding that everyone fight to the last man, woman, and child to protect their estates, their power, their lies.

It sickened him.

And now, before him stood something that should not exist. A being of impossible power, a force beyond human comprehension, offering them a path forward. But at a cost.

Murmurs among his officers, a few of them exchanging uneasy glances. Others, like Kosaku Aruga, looked more contemplative than fearful.

Itō let out a slow breath. "That is treason."

Musashi did not even blink. "So is getting annihilated in a suicidal operation that does nothing but prove how stubborn you are."

The officers fell silent. Even the most ardent loyalists among them could not deny the truth in her words.

For a long moment, Itō simply stared at her. The golden eyes, the way her white hair moved slightly with the sea breeze, the glow of the strange red markings on her body. Everything about her was unnatural, terrifying, and yet…

She had saved them.

And the world had changed in this moment. Whether he wished it or not, history would not be the same.

The silence stretched between them. He had spent his life in service to the Emperor, to the nation, to the dream of a strong and eternal Japan. But what was left of that dream now? Cities lay in ruins, men were sent to die for nothing, and the people suffered while those in power clung to their illusions.

This was not the Japan he had sworn to protect.

He dropped to his knees just as Aruga had done moments ago.

"Merciful Goddess of the Seas," he said, his voice steady despite the weight of what he was doing. "Protect Japan and the children of Amaterasu."

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the assembled officers and sailors. They had seen Itō, always composed, always formal. And now, before this being, he knelt as if before a divine figure.

One by one, the men followed suit. After all their flag officer himself had knelt. Aruga was the first to kneel beside him, followed by the other officers. The sailors, hardened warriors of the Imperial Navy, fell to their knees in unison, their heads bowed in reverence. The deck of Yamato became a sea of kneeling figures, and beyond them, similar sights were unfolding across the surrounding ships. The whispered prayers of desperate men, the silent pleas of those who had accepted that their world had shifted in ways they could not yet comprehend.

Musashi's gaze swept over them, her expression unreadable.

Itō did not know if she truly was a goddess. He did not know if she even cared for Japan, or if she was merely toying with them, some unknowable force beyond human comprehension.

But he did know that the Japan they were fighting for, the Japan that was being led to ruin by fools in high places, was not one he could continue to serve.

"I ask not for the Empire," Itō said, his voice firm. "Not for those in Tokyo who would see us all die to preserve their pride. I ask for the people of Japan, the innocent, the ones who have no voice in this war."

A long pause.

Then Musashi stepped forward.

Her feet made no sound against the steel deck.

Itō looked up at her, searching her face for any sign of reaction. Her expression was unreadable, her golden eyes scanning the men before her, taking in the kneeling fleet.

Then, at last, she spoke.

"Rise," she commanded. Her voice was strong, unwavering. "Do not kneel before me."

Itō hesitated, but obeyed, standing slowly. The officers and sailors followed, uncertain but obedient. Musashi looked at them, her gaze lingering on him.

"You ask me to protect Japan," she said. "But tell me, Admiral—what is Japan?"

Itō blinked, caught off guard. "It is our homeland. It is the land of the Emperor. The land of our ancestors."

Musashi did not react immediately. Instead, she turned, looking out over the dark sea.

"The land of the Emperor," she repeated. "The land of ancestors. And yet… it is a land strangled by war. It is a land where men send their sons to die for their own pride. A land where children starve while their leaders live in comfort. A land where atrocities are committed in the name of honor."

Itō felt his breath catch. The officers around him stiffened. But Musashi was not finished.

"You ask me to protect Japan," she said, turning back to him. "But tell me, Admiral—does Japan deserve to be protected?"

Silence.

Itō swallowed. He had spent his life serving the Empire. He had believed in its cause. But he had also seen the truth. He had seen the cruelty of his own superiors, the way they cared more for their own power than for the people. He had seen the suffering. He had ignored it. Told himself it was not his concern.

Now, facing Musashi, he could not lie.

"No," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Japan as it is now does not deserve to be protected."

A gasp from one of the officers But Itō did not care. He kept his eyes on Musashi, waiting for her judgment.

She regarded him for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.

"And yet," she said, "there are people in this land who do."

She looked at the men around her, at the fleet that had kneeled before her.

"I will not fight for the Empire," she declared. "I will not fight for the men who would see this nation burn to protect their pride. But I will fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. I will fight for those who wish to see a future beyond this war."

A wave of relief washed over Itō, so strong he almost staggered. He bowed deeply.

"Then, Merciful Goddess of the Seas," he said, voice firm, "we place our lives in your hands."

The men around him shouted in agreement.

For the first time, Itō believed that Japan might yet have a future.

"Very well."

A collective exhale passed through the crew. Itō bowed his head lowe in gratitude.

Musashi turned her gaze toward the horizon, where the American fleet lay beyond sight, licking its wounds from her earlier intervention. "The Americans will return. They will not accept anything less than your total surrender. That is what their leaders have decided. But I will not let Japan be burned to ashes for their vision of peace."

Itō clenched his fists. He had expected as much.

"Then what will you do?" Aruga asked.

Musashi's lips curled into something that was almost, but not quite, a smile.

"We will change the course of history."

Chapter Text

Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz sat behind his desk at Pearl Harbor, the telegrams and radio transcripts spread out before him like a damning indictment. His normally calm, methodical demeanor had hardened into something close to frustration, though he concealed it well beneath years of naval discipline. The words on the reports felt surreal, almost impossible.

ENTIRE AIR GROUP LOST. HEAVY FLEET LOSSES. SURVIVORS REPORT UNIDENTIFIED HOSTILE. DESCRIPTION: UNKNOWN WEAPONRY. WITHDRAWAL ORDER ISSUED BY ADMIRAL MITTSCHER.

Nimitz's grip on the edge of the desk tightened as he reread the message. He had expected the Japanese to resist fiercely, especially with their backs against the wall. He had expected Kamikazes, heavy anti-aircraft fire, even some last-ditch desperate counteroffensive.

But this…? This was something else entirely.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. His office, usually a place of strategy and calculated planning, now felt suffocating with unanswered questions.

A quiet knock at the door broke the silence.

"Enter," Nimitz called, opening his eyes again.

A young intelligence officer stepped in, saluting crisply. "Sir, additional reports from the fleet just came in."

Nimitz gestured for him to continue, feeling a headache beginning to form at his temples.

"The final reports have arrived, sir. The reports talk of a mysterious ship that the Japanese deployed. But not just any ship." The officer hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. "They claim it looked like one of the Yamato-class battleships… but different."

Nimitz's eyes narrowed. "Different how?"

"They describe it as having strange glowing markings, something like… red symbols along the hull. And…" The officer hesitated again, clearly struggling with what he was about to say. "Sir, they claim it fired weapons unlike anything ever seen before. Bright lances of energy that cut through our surface fleet with impossible precision."

Nimitz stared at the young man, his expression unreadable. This was nonsense. Science fiction.

And yet, something in the back of his mind told him otherwise.

Mitscher wasn't an idiot, and neither were his pilots. He had lost everything in that strike. If this were simply heavy anti-aircraft fire, or even a hidden carrier force they had missed, they would have known.

"Damn it," Nimitz muttered under his breath.

A low murmur among his gathered staff followed as the implications settled in. The greatest air group the Navy had assembled had just been obliterated. No enemy fleet had ever done such damage to American forces in a single battle.

He turned back to the officer. "What's Mitscher's status?"

"His remaining fleet is retreating, sir. What's left of it, anyway. The few pilots who survived have been ordered to debrief. We have intelligence teams going over their statements."

Nimitz sighed, rubbing his temples. "I want every bit of information on this… thing… analyzed. I don't care how insane it sounds. If the Japanese have deployed some new weapon, we need to know what we're dealing with."

"Yes, sir."

"Also, increase submarine patrols near Kyushu. I want eyes on that sector. If this isn't a trick, if the Japanese really do have something like this…" He exhaled sharply. "We need to confirm it."

His officers exchanged uncertain glances, but none of them dared to question his orders. Nimitz's reputation was built on calm leadership and strategic brilliance, not hysteria. And yet, even he could not shake the uneasy feeling creeping up his spine.

As the intelligence officer left, Nimitz reached for another report, this one detailing Japan's last known fleet movements.

A battleship that could fire weapons that sliced through squadrons of aircraft and aircraft carriers alike like paper?

It didn't make sense.

And yet, the facts were right in front of him.

For the first time in the war, Chester Nimitz felt something he had not felt since Pearl Harbor.

Doubt.

President Harry S. Truman had faced many difficult days since taking office after Roosevelt's passing, but this... this was something else entirely. He sat behind the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office, gripping the latest military report so tightly that the edges of the paper crumpled beneath his fingers. His eyes scanned the words again, as if rereading them would make them less infuriating, less absurd, less disastrous.

The United States Navy had suffered its worst defeat of the entire war. And not at the hands of Japan's remaining fleet or some unexpected kamikaze offensive, but because of a single goddamn ship. A ship that shouldn't exist. A ship that moved like a phantom through the waves and cut through American forces like a scythe through wheat. The "ghost battleship," as some of the surviving pilots were calling it.

The USS Essex was gone. The USS Randolph and Intrepid were at the bottom of the Pacific. Dozens of destroyers and cruisers had been torn apart, thousands of men dead, and worst of all—Marc Mitscher's Task Force 58 had been rendered ineffective, forced to withdraw completely. All because of this...thing.

Truman exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to temper the rage bubbling up in his chest. He set the paper down and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was already dealing with the atomic bomb project, the Soviet Union's looming threat, and now this?

His chief of staff, Admiral William Leahy, stood stiffly across the desk, waiting for the inevitable storm. Beside him, Secretary of War Henry Stimson had a similarly grim expression.

"Tell me, Leahy," Truman said, voice dangerously even. "Are you trying to tell me that the Imperial Japanese Navy, which we have spent the last four years grinding into dust, has somehow built a battleship that shoots beams of light like something out of a goddamn dime novel?"

Leahy, ever the professional, nodded solemnly. "Mr. President, all available reports suggest that this ship is unlike anything we've ever encountered. Our boys had her dead to rights, outnumbered, outgunned, and she still obliterated our forces without taking a scratch. We lost over a dozen ships, sir. The fleet is in shambles."

Truman clenched his fists on the desk, his knuckles turning white. "And you're sure this isn't some elaborate ruse? A deception? The Japs pulling some kind of trickery?" He turned to Stimson, who had been uncharacteristically quiet.

"I don't believe so, Mr. President," Stimson admitted with a shake of his head. "The reports from surviving pilots are... consistent. Too consistent. They all describe the same thing—red lights, beams that cut through steel like butter, and a ship that seemed to operate as though it were alive."

Truman scoffed. "Alive?"

Leahy hesitated before responding, "Yes, sir."

Truman stared at Leahy as if he had lost his mind. "So now we're fighting superstitions? A ghost battleship? What's next, are the damn Japs summoning samurai spirits to fight for them?"

Stimson cleared his throat. "Regardless of what we believe, sir, the results speak for themselves. We need to reassess our approach."

Truman stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Reassess? No, what we need is to make damn sure Japan remembers why it should never have picked a fight with us in the first place. I want immediate intelligence on this thing. Submarines, spies, reconnaissance flights—whatever it takes. I want to know exactly what we're dealing with before we commit to another engagement."

Leahy nodded. "Already in motion, sir. We've deployed additional subs near Kyushu to monitor its movements. But, Mr. President... our best commanders are saying that if this ship remains active, it could single-handedly turn the tide of the war."

Truman grit his teeth, taking a deep breath. The war was supposed to be winding down. They were supposed to be preparing Japan's surrender, with the bombs being the final nail in the coffin. And now this.

"Find a way to sink that goddamn ship," Truman growled. "Or so help me, we'll drop the bomb on it and see if that gets rid of it."

Silence hung in the air. The atomic bomb—America's ultimate weapon—was nearing completion. But was this ship truly invulnerable? Was it worth wasting such a weapon on a single enemy vessel?

Leahy cleared his throat. "Sir, I believe it would be wise to gather more intelligence before we commit to any drastic measures. If this ship is what they claim it to be... we may need to rethink our entire strategy."

Truman exhaled sharply and leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. "Get me answers, gentlemen. Fast. If Japan suddenly has the power to wipe out our fleets overnight, then we need to know where it came from—and more importantly, how to destroy it."

With that, the meeting was adjourned, and the wheels of the U.S. war machine turned once again, now focused on a single target: the ghost battleship.