When Ulyanovsk initially agreed to Belfast’s offer for a “joint maneuver” to exchange experience, he expected a standard procedure.
A formal, by-the-book port visit by a friendly-neutral warship.
He certainly did not expect to be bushwhacking through dense coastal jungle to the far side of the island, actively playing the role of a saboteur trying to sneak into an enemy base.
For himself, the aviation cruiser made one thing absolutely clear: he was never going on a stealth recon mission with Sirius.
“You know,” he sighed, catching the tripping girl for what felt like the hundredth time.
“When you suggested I follow you, I pictured a slightly different route.” “Thank you,” the Kansen muttered quietly, drilling a deeply offended glare into a protruding tree root.
“Seriously, where exactly are we going?” “To the allied mooring roadstead for Azur Lane factions,” Sirius beamed with sudden enthusiasm.
“They are currently preparing to host the flagship delegations from the Old World.
Lady Belfast volunteered to personally inspect the guest anchorages.” “Isn’t that a bit too out in the open?” The Head Maid’s master plan was rapidly losing its appeal.
“Not at all,” the girl shook her head vigorously.
“Most of the staff is currently busy prepping the grand banquet or coordinating protocol.
The patrol fleets have already pushed out to meet the delegations and provide a continuous honor guard.
You couldn’t find a more perfect, secluded spot.” “If that’s the case, why was Belfast allowed to wander off so easily?
Isn’t she the Head Maid?” “Lady Belfast holds Her Majesty’s absolute trust,” Sirius stated proudly, spinning around to face the aviation cruiser trailing behind her.
And immediately pitched forward.
Apparently, gravity had decided to punish the incredibly top-heavy light cruiser for her hubris, robbing her of her center of balance once again.
Ulyanovsk didn’t even try to dodge.
He simply caught the Kansen as she faceplanted directly into his chest.
“I’m happy to see you too,” he patted the girl’s back approvingly, looking down at her platinum-blonde hair.
“But couldn’t you have picked a smoother path?” “We might be seen out there,” Sirius whispered, refusing to let go of the guy’s uniform as she clung to him to regain her balance.
“I refuse to believe this base doesn’t have secluded, rarely used paths.
The kind meant for…
privacy.” “For…” the girl looked up.
“Privacy,” Ulyanovsk finished, wiggling his eyebrows.
The poor girl’s cheeks instantly flushed crimson, and she shook her head frantically.
“No!
Such things do not exist in the Royal Navy!” Flashbacks of his encounters with the English Shipgirls of this world danced before the aviation cruiser’s eyes.
Then, his gaze naturally dropped lower, landing on the impressive bust practically fighting to escape the confines of Sirius’s bodice.
“And what if the Commanding Officer himself suggests a private walk?” the guy smirked.
“Fraternization is strictly prohibited on base,” the light cruiser replied, blushing even harder.
“And no Kansen would ever agree to such an offer.” “Is that why half your colleagues are constantly trying to accuse me of sexual harassment within the first five seconds of meeting me?
While wearing outfits that belong in a specialty adult store?” Ulyanovsk sighed.
Before the girl could protest, he added: “Are we going to stand here all day?
I’m not complaining, but everything has a limit.
Including my self-control.” “Just a little longer,” Sirius pleaded, closing her eyes and pressing her head firmly against the aviation cruiser’s chest.
Instead of a normal human heartbeat, she heard a low, monotonous, synchronized hum.
It mesmerized her.
She had no idea why, and she was too embarrassed to ask, but she felt an overwhelming sense of peace listening to it.
“Hey, no sleeping on duty,” Ulyanovsk rested his palm against Sirius’s cheek, running his thumb lightly over her lips.
“Your boss is waiting for us,” he reminded her, lightly pinching her nose.
“Please stop that,” the Kansen mumbled indignantly, the spell finally broken.
“If you want, we can continue this later,” Ulyanovsk offered jokingly.
He instantly cut himself off, remembering his chemical-induced reaction to Taihou.
Sirius’s strangely eager smirk didn’t exactly put him at ease, either.
“Let’s go!” the girl declared firmly, grabbing his arm and dragging him forward like a tugboat.
“Keep your thoughts strictly within naval regulations,” the guy playfully warned.
The Kansen didn’t answer and didn’t look back, but the crimson tips of her ears told him the hint was received loud and clear.
That slight emotional jolt was enough to keep the vulgarly dressed maid from tripping for the rest of the hike.
Well, mostly.
At least the skirt-hiking and flashing of her pristine white lace panties dropped to a minimum.
The tugboat duty didn’t last long.
A clearing appeared ahead, and the two humanized warships stepped out onto the perimeter of a massive seaport.
“Are you sure no one besides Belfast will be here?” Ulyanovsk asked, taking in the sheer scale of the waters.
From his aerial drone recon, he knew the base had two massive harbors designed for capital fleets.
While one was bustling with their own combat units, repair docks, and infrastructure, this second one looked entirely deserted.
However, the lack of moored vessels made the inner roadstead look absolutely grandiose.
Dozens of massive piers stretched deep into the bay.
They were large enough to easily accommodate any modern supercarrier from Ulyanovsk’s era.
Doing some quick mental math on the inner and outer roadsteads, the guy concluded a massive fleet could easily anchor here, though it still lacked the sheer volume of Scapa Flow in its prime.
Despite the scale, Ulyanovsk hadn’t spotted a single coastal defense battery on his drone feed, nor did his internal radars ping any active shore installations now.
“Lady Belfast is already waiting for us,” Sirius pointed to a lone figure standing at the edge of one of the piers.
“Ah, you made it,” the Head Maid turned to meet them, offering a welcoming smile.
“Right on schedule,” Ulyanovsk replied, noting the thick cardboard folder clutched in her hands.
“Secure the perimeter,” Belfast ordered her subordinate.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Sirius nodded.
Spinning on her heels, she bolted toward a wide avenue leading into a nearby grove.
“Where is she going?” the guy asked, briefly distracted by the rhythmic bouncing of the maid’s curves as she jogged away.
“Sirius was ordered to tend to the flower beds.
If anything goes wrong, she will signal us,” Belfast answered.
She sighed, shaking her head.
“Though I strongly dislike using her clumsiness and the unique humor of our destroyers as a cover story.” “As long as the situation stays under control,” the aviation cruiser muttered, remembering exactly how he had first met the girl.
“So, how are we handling this experience exchange?” he turned to the Head Maid.
“I suggest we step aboard my ship for that,” Belfast offered a sly smirk.
“You realize how incredibly loaded that sounds, right?” Ulyanovsk shook his head.
“I am perfectly aware,” her smirk widened.
The moment she finished her sentence, dozens of small, semi-transparent blue cubes materialized in the air around her.
A portion of them swirled around the girl, condensing around her arms and waist.
The vast majority, however, orbited the Kansen once before streaking toward the water.
The second the cloud of cubes touched the ocean’s surface, it began to stretch and expand, taking the familiar shape of a naval vessel.
Rapidly growing in size, the glowing mass solidified into the distinct silhouette of a Town-class cruiser moored right beside the pier.
A bright flash erupted from within, and the ghostly ship gained physical form—a massive steel leviathan painted in a gray-and-blue disruption camouflage.
Simultaneously, heavy metal gauntlets materialized on Belfast’s forearms, adorned with small twin anti-aircraft guns on the back of her hands.
A steel corset snapped into place around her waist, mirroring every curve of her hips perfectly—as if designed by a truly degenerate mind.
“Welcome aboard,” Belfast made an inviting gesture toward her hull, looking expectantly at the guy.
Ulyanovsk shifted his gaze from the girl to the heavy gangway that had just clattered softly onto the concrete pier.
Then, he looked down the length of the hull.
His mind involuntarily compared the displacement and dimensions of the two vessels.
It was a heavily lopsided comparison.
He dwarfed her by a factor of seven.
“How does the displacement difference affect this?” he asked, seeking clarification.
“It doesn’t,” Belfast answered after a short pause.
“Unless you decide to materialize your own hull right on top of my deck.
That would be…
uncomfortable.” “Has that happened before?” the guy asked, stepping onto the gangway.
“No, but we have run simulations.
Please, follow me,” the girl led the way, stepping aboard.
Stepping onto the wooden deck plating, Ulyanovsk followed the maid toward the forward superstructure.
All the while, his onboard electronics were working in overdrive, heavily scanning the environment.
The picture painted by his sensors was bizarre.
So bizarre that if he actually had a human crew, the officers in his CIC would be pulling their hair out trying to figure out what the hell was happening.
Fortunately, Ulyanovsk’s physical manifestation acted as his own CIC, which honestly didn’t make him feel any better.
The moment Belfast summoned her hull, a phantom signature identical to the maid herself appeared on his radar right next to her.
However, the second the Kansen stepped aboard her own ship, she completely vanished from the radar, and a massive blind spot spawned around the aviation cruiser.
He had anticipated this, but for a guy used to having absolute control over his battlespace, it was highly unsettling.
Yet, the ship beneath Ulyanovsk’s boots felt distinctly alive.
It wasn’t the faint hum of boilers and turbines.
It wasn’t the rhythmic vibration of the drive shafts spinning the propellers, churning white water at the stern to keep the steel giant steady.
And it wasn’t the striking grace with which Belfast maneuvered her ship.
Her hull felt exactly like the symbiote of a high-tier Abyssal Hime.
But it lacked the crushing psychic aura of malice and doom that those symbiotes—dubbed Oni by Japanese researchers for simplicity—radiated when they lost their human halves.
Himes always consisted of two parts: the sentient human half and the feral symbiote.
A Hime who lost her Oni could grow a new one; the reverse was not true.
Before dying, an orphaned Oni would unleash a psychic “death screech” that sent all surrounding Abyssals into a berserker frenzy.
They would throw themselves at their enemies with zero regard for survival.
Woe to any Kanmusu caught nearby when that happened.
If there were no Shipgirls around, the frenzied Abyssals would gleefully tear each other to pieces until the strongest survived the psychic shock and restored order.
Ulyanovsk frequently exploited this exact mechanic during his solo raids to eliminate isolated Himes.
It didn’t work on massive swarms because of the presence of other high-tier alphas, but small packs could be eradicated this way with minimal ammo expenditure.
“Is something wrong?” the Kansen looked back at the guy, who had stopped near the forward superstructure.
The striking similarity terrified and fascinated the aviation cruiser at the same time.
Whoever created the local Shipgirls, that genius had gifted humanity a loyal equivalent to the apex predators of the Abyssal Fleet.
Ulyanovsk made a mental note to interrogate Murzai, the Pacific Abyssal Submarine, about the mechanics of summoning Oni the next time they met.
A loose tongue was an intelligence asset, and the overly chatty Submarine Princess was a goldmine of enemy intel.
“Everything is fine,” he shook his head, placing his palm flat against the sun-warmed metal plating of the superstructure.
“But one question is really bothering me…” The aviation cruiser wanted to derail his own grim thoughts, and perfectly recalled the jokes his admirals used to make about ‘checking below the waterline.’ “What is it?” Belfast asked, turning to face him.
“If you are the ship, how should I interpret my current actions?” he winked at the girl, ostentatiously stroking the superstructure’s armor plating like a beloved pet cat.
“You know,” the Kansen drawled thoughtfully, pressing a finger to her lips.
“I could interpret that in several ways.
For instance,” she squinted slyly, covering her chest with her hands, “that you are making blatantly lewd advances.” “Advances?” Ulyanovsk repeated.
“Pity we aren’t on the stern…” “Now that is crossing a line,” the girl frowned.
“So you do treat the hull exactly like your own body,” the guy concluded.
“Isn’t that obvious?” Belfast stepped over to a steel ammo crate sitting near the superstructure.
“The hull is our body; it perfectly reflects the state of the Kansen.
It’s precisely because of this, and the efforts of the Manjuu, that we can restore battle damage so efficiently.
And so much more,” she looked pointedly at her gun turrets.
Following her gaze, the aviation cruiser caught a detail on the turrets he hadn’t noticed at first.
Overall, they looked perfectly normal, but the shape was slightly off, and there were a few uncharacteristic components.
Digging through his memory, he was absolutely certain that the historical Belfast from his world did not have rangefinder blisters on those specific turrets.
“Those aren’t your native guns, are they?” “No,” the Kansen nodded, confirming his guess.
“6-inch Mark 16s from the Eagle Union.” “But what about the different mounting rings, the weight disparity, and all the other technical nightmares?
Sirius mentioned something about this, but I honestly didn’t believe it.” “The Manjuu handle the installation and calibration.
And they despise sharing their trade secrets,” the girl smiled.
“I take it you don’t have anything like this?” she turned to the guy.
“We don’t practice summoning full-sized hulls,” Ulyanovsk scoffed.
“Primarily because doing so is basically suicide.” “I would very much like to hear the details of that,” Belfast sat down on the ammo crate, placing a folder that had materialized out of nowhere onto her lap.
“Take a seat,” she patted the metal lid.
“What details are there to give?” The guy sat down next to the maid.
“Like I said before, our enemy is small, highly maneuverable on and under the water, and possesses the ability to literally chew through metal hull plating.
It’s basically like…” Ulyanovsk paused, searching for the right words.
“Like dropping a bleeding cow into a pool of hungry piranhas.
Yeah, that’s a pretty accurate comparison.” “But an animal can run away,” the Kansen countered.
“Depends on how fast they chew its legs off.
Here, take a look,” he handed her a sheet of paper.
It was a playfully drawn caricature of the primary Abyssal Fleet species.
Next to each drawing was a table detailing their core stats: dimensions, speed, classification, and threat level.
“The weakest ones are simultaneously the largest—roughly the size of a whale.
However, the higher the rank, the smaller the entity and the higher its threat level.
For convenience, the Abyssal Fleet is divided into castes using standard naval classifications.
Destroyer, cruiser, and so on.
The creatures are bisexual, with pronounced sexual dimorphism leaning toward larger, stronger, and highly aggressive males that lack territorial instincts.
However, males are exclusively observed in the lowest classes.
Above the torpedo cruiser and heavy cruiser threshold, no male entities have ever been recorded,” Ulyanovsk pointed his finger at the chibi-version of a Ne-class heavy cruiser.
“The reason for this is completely unknown.” “So, your enemies are animals?” Belfast clarified.
“If you heavily, heavily oversimplify it,” the aviation cruiser sighed.
“Then yes.
Wildlife that completely ignores the fish swimming around it, preferring to snack on warships or concrete piers.
With rare exceptions made for Kanmusu.
Oh, and their corpses dissolve without a trace about ten minutes after they die, or if they get washed ashore.” “How convenient to have an enemy that cleans up after itself in death,” the girl noted with a hint of irritation.
“Look on the bright side,” the aviation cruiser smirked.
“Which is?” “You don’t have to clean up the mess.
I’m pretty sure your Maid Corps has enough on their plate as it is.” “True,” Belfast sighed.
“The last thing we need is literal mountains of scrap metal and suspicious alien electronics…” “Beats rotting organic matter,” Ulyanovsk countered.
“It’s way easier to find a use for scrap metal.” “Be that as it may,” the maid continued.
“How much does the real ‘Abyssal Fleet’ differ from these drawings?” she asked, tapping the paper.
“How much does a kid’s drawing of a car differ from an actual car?
Same principle.
Take this little fish,” he pointed to the caricature of an I-class destroyer.
“It can tank multiple hits from anti-tank missiles that normally slice through 300mm of armor like butter.
Meanwhile, it bites back with plasma spit that hits with the kinetic force of a 5-inch naval shell.
And it spits accurately, too.
Even at subsonic aerial targets up to two kilometers high.
As it matures, it grows torpedo tubes, feeling perfectly at home underwater from the moment of birth.” “And it can operate as a submarine?” the Kansen summarized.
“Fortunately, only rare specimens.
But as the class goes up,” the aviation cruiser traced a line from the destroyer to the image of an Abyssal battleship, “they get smarter and vastly stronger.
Not to the point of being a strategic threat alone, but the sheer numerical superiority of the enemy completely negates their lack of intelligence,” he lied smoothly.
He rarely talked about the potential existence of a civilized Abyssal society back home, and an unfamiliar maid certainly didn’t need to know about it.
“Are you absolutely certain they are animals?” Belfast asked, carefully studying the table the aviation cruiser provided.
“Not in the classical sense,” the guy shook his head.
“Who they are and what they are is a total mystery.
One beautiful day, a starving horde just surfaced and started feasting on the global shipping lanes.
Later, a strange fog appeared in areas with high Abyssal concentrations, gradually covering almost the entire ocean.
Satellites can’t see through it, and the fog itself inexplicably fries any electronics that get too close.
It has a heavy psychotropic effect on humans, too.” “You make it sound like some paranormal phenomenon.
Like ghosts.” “Congratulations, you just named the leading origin theory of the Abyssal Fleet back in my world,” Ulyanovsk snapped his fingers.
“I owe you a pastry.” “I will hold you to that,” Belfast smiled.
“However, it is a strange coincidence.
Your world is under attack by invaders from beyond the veil; mine is under attack from another dimension.” “These ‘Sirens’—do they pop out of wardrobes too?” “If only it were that simple…” the girl laughed.
“If that were true, wardrobes and nightstands would have gone out of style very quickly.
But no, the Sirens are capable of opening portals themselves and deploying their fleets directly into our world.” With those words, she opened the folder that had been resting on her lap and pulled out a small stack of photographs.
“Pardon the question, but how is your mental fortitude?” the aviation cruiser asked, looking at the offered photos.
“In what sense?” “Stress tolerance, for example.” “I am the Head Maid of Her Majesty’s Fleet,” Belfast answered proudly.
“You need not doubt my psychological resilience.” “Don’t take this to heart,” Ulyanovsk repeated.
“I just wanted to know if I should show you something.
Like the answer to your previous question.” “Which one?” the senior Kansen slid the photos back into the folder, looking at the guy with keen interest.
“About how much the drawings differ from reality,” the aviation cruiser sighed, pulling a photograph of an Abyssal Ro-class destroyer from his own folder.
An unnamed photographer had managed to capture a magnificent shot of the Abyssal firing.
Ulyanovsk rarely thought about whether the photographer was still alive—hoping for the best—but he had to dig through international databases to find this specific shot.
“Just a heads-up, this is why I asked,” he handed the photograph to Belfast.
Lowering her gaze, the girl intently studied the creature, which vaguely resembled a sperm whale.
But only in shape.
The carcass, covered in a glossy, metallic material, looked as if it had been crudely chiseled out of a massive block of obsidian.
A gaping maw split the creature’s face into two halves—rather than sitting underneath like a normal predator—and was lined with razor-sharp teeth gleaming in the moonlight.
Inside, a tube-like tongue was visible, but it was lost in the bright, blood-red flames burning fiercely within the creature’s throat.
For a split second, Belfast thought the fire was alive.
The flames licked the destroyer’s teeth, trying to escape, but something forced them to retract, coiling tightly around the tube protruding from its mouth.
The fire danced with the unbridled fury of a primordial element, mesmerizing the Kansen.
Only through sheer willpower did the Head Maid tear her gaze away.
But escaping one trap only meant falling into another.
Two aquamarine eyes burned with cold malice and infinite hunger.
The realization sent a chill down Belfast’s spine.
They seemed to stare directly into her soul, evaluating her not as a dangerous adversary, but purely in terms of nutritional value.
“My word,” the Kansen closed her eyes, taking several deep breaths.
“Now I understand your concerns.” “You’re tough,” Ulyanovsk didn’t skimp on the praise.
“Sirius literally bluescreened from a similar picture.” “This is,” Belfast looked at the Abyssal classification sheet, “one of the weakest entities?” “Ro-class destroyer.
A slightly less common variant than its I-class brethren, distinguished by a thicker hide,” the aviation cruiser confirmed her guess.
“And how often do Kansen…
‘bluescreen’ in combat?” “Like Sirius?” Ulyanovsk clarified.
Receiving a nod, he explained: “Only if they encounter a command unit.
Those monsters don’t fit into the standard classification because they’re far too individualized.
The only thing they have in common is the ability to control hundreds, if not thousands, of grunts.
So a minor stupor when the final boss shows up is understandable.
Or, Kanmusu start hallucinating if they spend several months at sea without a break, especially under the cover of the Abyssal fog.” “In other words, there are no actual methods to combat this?” the maid sighed doomed.
“The best I can recommend is a mug of hot chocolate.
Or, if that luxury isn’t available, anything sweet.
In combat, you just have to remember your mission objective and focus entirely on executing it,” the guy answered.
“There is no other way.” “A pity,” Belfast sighed again.
“It’s highly unlikely you’ll ever encounter the Abyssal Fleet, but just in case, here,” he handed the folder to the girl, “is the absolute minimum required to fight them.
If you do meet them, having the manual will make it easier to develop tactics against the higher-tier entities in the bottom half of the list.
Either way, they’ll throw the small fry like destroyers at you first.
If you’re incredibly unlucky.” “On behalf of the Royal Navy, I express my deepest gratitude,” the maid accepted the gift.
“You know, compared to yours, our enemy’s grunt forces look rather dull,” she set the folder aside and handed the aviation cruiser the stack of photos she had pulled out earlier.
They depicted ships that closely resembled the latest littoral combat ships of the US Navy.
The same trimaran hulls, covered in glowing red lines.
Depending on the type—destroyer or battleship—the dimensions and armament varied, though Ulyanovsk found the gun turrets looked incredibly ridiculous.
Standing apart was an aircraft carrier, designated as “Queen,” an absolutely massive double-hulled catamaran with two flight decks and an island superstructure in the middle.
“Are they armed with missiles?” Ulyanovsk asked, pointing at the payload under a jet’s wing.
The plane itself looked like a bizarre incestuous hybrid of an American SR-71 Blackbird and a Soviet Su-47.
“Not just missiles,” Belfast confirmed.
“Siren ships are also armed with directed-energy beam weapons, which are highly effective against any target except Kansen.” “The dimensions of the ships, I assume, correspond roughly to the standard sizes of each class?” “Exactly.” “And the planes?” “Likewise.” “Then how do you conduct aerial combat?
Do you rely on land-based aviation support?” “Unfortunately, due to the Sirens’ advanced electronic warfare systems, human-created technology is highly ineffective.
At sea, we rely entirely on carrier-based aviation,” the girl answered.
“But…” Ulyanovsk started, then remembered what he was currently sitting on.
“Do the planes scale up too?” “Yes,” the Kansen nodded.
The aviation cruiser fell into a stunned silence, trying to process the information.
“Then why do they even need Shipgirls?” he asked insidiously.
“Does your military not understand Electronic Warfare?
Are optical and laser guidance systems just for weaklings?” “The problem lies with the humanoid combat units,” Belfast frowned, clearly offended by the guy questioning her country’s military competence.
“They are no different from Kansen, except they possess vastly superior firepower.
We do not know exactly why the Sirens utilize a full-sized fleet, but it is far easier to destroy them without resorting to summoning our own hulls.” “And how often do engagements with humanoid entities occur?” “Given the Sirens’ ability to instantaneously teleport across space, any combat contact is considered an engagement with a humanoid entity,” the maid answered.
“Before the Kansen appeared, the armed forces had some minor success in resisting…” “…Until the command units entered the battlefield,” Ulyanovsk finished for her.
“And you say you have it easier.
At least the Abyssal Fleet can’t teleport.
Even if they are practically invulnerable to conventional weaponry…” “Invulnerable in what sense?” the Kansen asked with keen interest.
“We have missiles capable of obliterating even a humanoid entity, like an Abyssal battleship.
Guaranteed kill.
The only catch is the price tag has six zeroes attached to it,” he snorted, adding just in case: “Assuming the price of a standard hamburger is one unit of currency.” “Far too expensive,” Belfast agreed.
“Just like our situation,” she smiled.
“But what about repairs?” the guy arched an eyebrow.
“You said you guys get repaired in your full-sized hulls.” “Believe me, it requires vastly fewer materials and time than repairing the historical prototype,” the Kansen chuckled.
“Speaking of which…
Care to explain what happened to Formidable?” the maid asked, leaning slightly toward the guy with a sly smirk.
Ulyanovsk instantly hated the direction this conversation had taken.
He involuntarily remembered the dark brown eyes gleaming in the dim light, and the pleasant weight of the highly attractive girl sitting on top of him.
“What did happen to Formidable?” the aviation cruiser asked back.
He actively banished the intrusive image of the Kansen wearing nothing but a flimsy crop top, smiling wickedly as she slowly leaned down.
How the fabric had stretched, barely containing her chest, and how the Shipgirl—seeing exactly where his gaze was locked—had begun whispering highly transparent suggestions.
“Following your visit, she somehow miraculously restored all of her battle damage.” Wrestling his rampant imagination back under control, Ulyanovsk looked at the maid in front of him.
“Explain the hull summoning first,” he demanded.
“Otherwise, I won’t be able to answer your question.” “It really isn’t that complicated,” Belfast tilted her head slightly, keeping her eyes locked onto the guy, carefully tracking his reaction.
“A Kansen is the egregore of humanity’s collective thoughts regarding a specific warship, summoned using a Mental Cube.
Because of this, we can take on a human form,” she placed a hand over her heart, “as well as the form of our historical prototype, which also leaves an imprint on the collective memory of humanity.
There are a few exceptions to this rule, but they have no bearing on your question.
Therefore, to summon her hull, a Kansen merely needs to call upon her second ‘self’.” “Yeah…” Ulyanovsk drawled.
“The way you describe it, it sounds exactly like materializing combat rigging.” “It is,” the girl nodded.
“The process is identical, only the result differs.
Now it is your turn,” the sly smirk returned to her face.
“I just used the standard compound we use to repair Shipgirls in my world,” the aviation cruiser shrugged.
“The damage was superficial, even though it looked horrific at first glance.” Even though bringing his otherworldly flat-top colleague back to fighting shape had drained almost an entire tube of repair gel, he hadn’t needed to break out the heavy-duty components of the kit.
The reinforced version was capable of getting a Kanmusu back on her feet even if she had one foot—or rather, her entire body—in the grave.
“Superficial?” Belfast asked in disbelief.
She perfectly recalled the damage report Formidable had filed after the Manjuu riot.
It wasn’t anyone’s fault; just a ridiculous accident and a terrible chain of events.
A single collapsed port crane had triggered an avalanche, detonating paint barrels on the carrier’s flight deck, and a gantry crane had battered her hull like a battering ram, rupturing high-pressure steam lines.
Repairs and recalibration of her propulsion plant were expected to take a week, to say nothing of fixing the rest of the ship.
Yet, miraculously, all the damage had vanished in less than an hour.
Even the temporary steel patch welded to her hull had simply popped off on its own.
“I’ve seen worse, and I’ve healed worse,” Ulyanovsk replied, having zero desire to explain the biochemistry of repair compounds.
“I understand that things happen in a purely female collective, so I didn’t ask exactly how Formidable sustained those injuries,” he smirked, looking down at the maid.
“Sexism,” the Kansen parried, realizing she wasn’t going to get any concrete answers right now.
“Sweet revenge,” the aviation cruiser declared, looking immensely satisfied.
“That is hardly gentlemanly,” the girl offered a theatrical, disappointed sigh.
“I get a pass,” the guy waved it off.
Sliding the photographs of the Siren ships back into the folder, she handed it to the interdimensional guest.
“What’s next on the agenda?” he asked, taking the documents.
“Why did you need to know about hull summoning to explain Lady Formidable’s miraculous recovery?” Belfast reminded him.
*** With a soft click, the telephone receiver settled back into its cradle, followed immediately by the resounding crack of a fist slamming against the desk.
The blonde-haired girl dozing in the chair by the wall—who had spent the last few hours desperately trying to pretend she was a piece of furniture—jumped to her feet, looking around in panic.
“Admiral, sir?” she addressed the officer behind the desk, her voice laced with concern.
Judging by his expression, the man looked like he wanted to crush the unfortunate telephone receiver still clutched in his hand into dust.
“Everything is fine, Komi,” the man took a deep breath before continuing.
“Be a dear and send the duty officer to fetch Captain 1st Rank Krechetov.” “Yes, sir!” the girl saluted and fluttered out of the office.
Watching the subordinate—wearing a female uniform with the epaulets of a Captain 2nd Rank—leave, the Admiral finally stopped holding back.
He squeezed the receiver with such sheer force that the plastic groaned pitifully and snapped into two halves.
“It’s about time you met your future partner,” he muttered quietly after the departed girl.
“Damned Volkov, as if cleaning up his regular messes wasn’t enough, now I have to deal with this…” he shook his head in disappointment, chuckling bitterly.
“The First Special Missile Ship Division, couldn’t have come up with a better name…
Looks like they couldn’t reach a compromise…”