Chapter 0

Prologue: Zero

“I was just supposed to track storms… not fight in one.”

After the End Came Silence

When the Third World War—called by many the Second Holy War—finally ended, it wasn’t with a treaty. It ended with ashes.

More than 80% of the global population vanished. Major landmasses were drowned or scorched. The United States, China, India, England, France, and Russia—names once spoken with power—were reduced to fractured memories.

Entire capitals sunk beneath rising seas. Nuclear firestorms devoured continents.

What was left of the world clung to life.

A Fractured Order

From the ruins, a desperate attempt at global stability emerged:
The Earth Federation.

Their goal: rebuild civilization. Protect the remnants. Hold the line.

But not everyone believed in unity. In the shadows, a new force grew—Nocturne—a rogue faction collecting the world’s abandoned war machines and luring ex-soldiers, mercenaries, and radicals into its fold.

And between these two titans, refusing to side with either, stood a small, fragile pact:

The South China Sea Alliance.

Built from what remained of Malaysia, Indonesia, Indochina, the Philippines, and a scattering of island nations, they had no power to wage war. But they had one thing left:
Hope.
A newly-formed city between the ruins of Singapore and Johor Bahru—now the capital of the neutral alliance.

They Couldn’t Afford a War… So They Built Their Own Shields

The alliance didn’t form a traditional army.

Instead, they created a small but deadly force of volunteers:
The Fleetwood Mercenary Volunteer Force.

100,000 men and women across land, sea, and sky. Three divisions. One purpose: protect neutrality.

And somewhere far below the radar, not even enlisted…

Was me.

Present Day – Somewhere Above the South China Sea

An old F-86 Sabre, painted deep ocean blue, hums low through the humid skies.

It’s a relic. A museum piece. Its wings rattle in the air pockets as if begging for retirement.

Inside the cramped cockpit sits a fifteen-year-old boy, mismatched flight gear, one gloved hand gripping the stick. His callsign—unofficial, unrecognized—is:

“Blue Falcon.”

He’s not Fleetwood military. Not even a cadet.

He’s just a civilian pilot under contract with the Town Control Weather Monitoring Division. His job? Fly into storm cells. Map wind patterns. Deliver weather reports.

He never signed up for combat.

“Tower, this is Blue Falcon. I’m approaching scan grid Delta-92, confirming cumulonimbus activity forming near former Palawan.”

“Copy that, Blue Falcon. Data transmission live. Remain on course, observe lightning density, and avoid lower thermal pockets. Winds are surging.”

“Understood. Skies are... quiet. Almost too quiet.”

Below him, where Palawan and Kudat once stood, is now a patchwork of reef, shallow sea, and broken islands. Ghost towns lie under murky waters, drowned long ago.

Blue Falcon steadies the aircraft. The measurement probe beneath the fuselage begins to hum.

And then—

“Mayday! This is Patrol 07! We’re under attack—multiple MiGs! Sky Corsairs inbound—scramble Fleetwood air!”

His stomach drops.

On his HUD, dots appear—fast, climbing, circling.

“Blue Falcon, divert immediately. Do not engage. You are not a combatant. Avoid all contact.”

“Copy that! Turning around—wait—”

A shadow flashes past his canopy.

The roar of engines screams in his ears. Tracer rounds zip through the sky.

A MiG-15, nose painted with a grinning shark face, dives straight for him.

“I’ve got a bandit on me! I’m unarmed—”

“Only defensive guns are active. Do not fire unless fired upon.”

The MiG loops around again. Bullets dance near his wingtips.

“Screw it—he’s trying to kill me!”

He squeezes the trigger.

The Sabre’s four machine guns erupt, lighting up the sky. One burst clips the MiG’s wing. The pirate aircraft spirals and slams into the sea in a flaming trail.

“Splash one... Holy hell. What did I just do...?”

Before he can breathe, another shadow roars by.

A JF-17 with Fleetwood markings tears across the sky, unleashing a volley of missiles. Three MiGs vanish in fireballs. A Blinder bomber flies low over the sea, sinking two pirate destroyers and a corvette.

“This is supposed to be a weather mission…”

On his right, a Sea King drops a torpedo—BOOM—a submarine explodes in a column of salt and fire.

The air is full of chaos.

F-5 Tigers strafe MiGs. A MiG-21 slams a bomber out of the air. A Viggen dives and unleashes fire upon landing craft trying to storm a reef.

Fleetwood’s entire QRF (Quick Reaction Force) is in the air.

And he?

He’s a civilian. A kid. Watching the war unfold from the cockpit of a 70-year-old jet.

Then—another ping on radar.

“Not again…”

Another MiG-15 is on his tail—faster, smarter, aggressive.

“Blue Falcon, evade! You’re not equipped to dogfight!”

He weaves between rocky islets and coral spikes. Warning sirens blare. Altitude dangerously low—barely 1,000 feet.

“Missile lock?! Since when do these bastards carry missiles?!”

A tone shrieks.

WHOOOOSH!

A missile flies. He jerks the stick—barrel rolls through a sea arch, engines howling from the stress.

He can’t keep this up. The Sabre’s shaking apart.

“Blue Falcon, disengage! Get out of there!”

But the MiG’s not letting him go.

Suddenly, his scanner beeps.

The probe—still active.

That’s when a new voice breaks into the comms:

“Give me the data probe… and I won’t shoot you down.”

His eyes widen.

“Who the hell are you?!”

Then Town Control cuts in—urgent, cold, and final:

“That weather probe is a Tier-Zero strategic asset. Do not let it fall into enemy hands. You are authorized to defend with deadly force. At all costs, Blue Falcon.”

He blinks.

The war just became his.

“...I'm just a weather pilot...”

No time to think. The MiG launches a missile.

He dives, flares out, then pulls up—sharp, too sharp—executing a Cobra Maneuver. His jet bucks violently. G-forces slam him into his seat. The MiG overshoots.

He locks on.

But doesn't shoot.

“I'm not a soldier…”

He doesn’t need to be.

He's still flying.

And that’s enough.

From the high skies, a Fleetwood Buccaneer dives in behind him. The pilot radios in, voice laughing with disbelief:

“Was that a Cobra maneuver?! From a goddamn Sabre?! Kid—you’re insane!”

The MiG turns to flee.

But it’s too late.

The sky answers.

To be continued...