Chapter 20: “Trouble from the East.”

  Scene 1: “Letter from Ren’s Parents”

  —-: Ren

  Ren stared at the letter for a long time before opening it.

  It came sealed in wax — not stamped, just squished shut with what looked like the bottom of a tea mug. The handwriting on the envelope wobbled like it had been written in a moving aircar. Definitely Dad’s work.

  Inside, on cheap tan paper that smelled faintly of fish sauce and oil rags:

  “Son,

  First off, your mother made me write this. If it were up to me, I’d send you a sandwich and a slap on the back.

  But she says I need to say this:

  We’re proud of you. Even if the headmaster calls tomorrow and tells us you broke a skybridge in half, we’re proud.

  And one more thing.

  The sky sees everything. Even the stuff you try to hide.

  That includes fear. And heart.

  Don’t forget the ground, son.

  You fall faster than you rise.

  — Dad

  (P.S. Mom says eat vegetables. I say engine grease builds character.)**

  Ren let the letter sag in his hand. His throat did that weird thing again — tightening like it couldn’t decide if he needed to laugh or choke.

  He leaned back in his chair, boots resting on a crate of spare bearings, and looked out the narrow dorm window. The wind was picking up. The sky was clear. His heart wasn’t.

  “Don’t forget the ground,” huh? he thought.

  Too late for that.

  His hand drifted to the desk drawer, where a crumpled envelope with “Return to Sender” still sat from last week — the one he’d written after his first near-crash, the one he never sent.

  Ren stared out at the early glow across the quad.

  They were officially in the qualifiers now. Kyokuto was coming. And for the first time, he wasn’t just fixing something someone else built.

  He was flying it. With people who trusted him to hold the sky together.

  That… scared the hell out of him.

  Scene 2: “Ren’s Reply”

  —-: Ren

  The paper he pulled out wasn’t special. Just a page torn from the workshop logbook — still had faint grease smudges across the margin. But Ren figured that was honest enough. If he started pretending things were tidy now, they’d see right through him.

  He clicked the nib of his crystal-ink pen a few times, then let out a breath.

  And started writing.

  “Dear Mom and Dad,”

  I think I’m finally part of something bigger than myself.

  It’s strange. At first, I was sure I’d just fix a few gears and get kicked out for steam leaks and social disasters. And yeah… there have been both. (Ask Grandpa about the bathhouse incident. Or don’t. Please don’t.)

  But something happened.

  I flew.

  Not just in the air, but with people. With Rin — who flies like she’s racing her own shadow — and Hana, who’s too smart for her own good and maybe mine too. And even Jiro, who glued his own hand to a gear box yesterday.

  But part of me’s scared I’ll mess it up.

  Like I’ll blink at the wrong moment and the whole thing — this ship, this team, this weird miracle — will fall apart because I didn’t tighten the right bolt. Or say the right thing. Or because the sky decides I was never meant to be up there to begin with.

  Is that what being a pilot feels like?

  Half ready. Half terrified. But going anyway?

  Anyway. I’m eating. I’m sleeping. Mostly.

  Grandpa keeps dropping parts on my head.

  That probably means he’s proud of me.

  I’ll write more after the next race. We’re up against Kyokuto.

  Everyone says they’re monsters in the sky.

  So I’ll fly like we’re monsters too.

  Love,

  Ren

  (P.S. I ate a vegetable. It was pickled. That counts.)

  He folded the letter. Didn’t seal it yet. Just sat there for a moment longer, feeling the quiet settle in.

  He wasn’t sure if he was writing to calm himself down or to make them worry less.

  Maybe both.

  The sun broke over the rooftops. Steam curled from a nearby pipe like morning breath. The sky outside was blue, open, and waiting.

  Ren smiled faintly. Tapped the letter once. Then stood.

  Time to earn it.

  Scene 3: “Taiga’s Training Montage”

  —-: Jiro (unfortunately assigned observer)

  “Alright, world,” Taiga shouted to no one in particular, striking a pose on top of a toolbox with a wrench over his shoulder like it was a sword. “Time to become the perfect support crew-slash-pilot-slash-lady-magnet. Starting today!”

  Jiro didn’t look up from the coil alignment he was actually fixing. “You’re doing all three at once again, aren’t you?”

  “Efficiency, my dear Jiro!” Taiga flexed a single bicep and immediately dropped the wrench on his own foot. “Ow.”

  Jiro sighed. “You’re gonna strain something that isn’t fixable with gears and solder, man.”

  Montage 1: “Physical Prep” (Loosely Speaking)

  Taiga grabbed a pair of engine pistons, one in each hand, and attempted bicep curls. They were uneven, squealed horribly, and still had grease on them.

  “Feel the burn!” he grunted.

  “You’re not supposed to actually set the wrenches on fire!” Jiro shouted, batting at the tiny flame sparking from a dropped torch Taiga had used to “warm up” the bolts.

  Montage 2: “Flirt Training” (He Shouldn’t Have)

  Spotting a second-year girl walking by in pilot coveralls, Taiga gave his best steam-slicked grin and leaned casually against a coil press.

  “Hey there,” he said, voice like scorched syrup. “Need a wingman? I come with… torque.”

  She didn’t stop walking.

  “Okay, okay,” he called after her. “That one was a test run. I have others!”

  Jiro groaned from inside the Dart. “This is why I keep a wrench nearby at all times. For mercy.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Montage 3: “Actual Work Avoidance” (Mastered)

  While Hana and Ren adjusted the torque gears on the Dart, Taiga wandered through the hangar pretending to take measurements with an empty ruler, pausing occasionally to write nonsense notes like “Crystal vent tastes like banana” and “Do gears dream of spinning sheep?”

  Hana glanced over the edge of the airship, eyes narrowing. “Why is he measuring the floor?”

  Ren, balanced upside down beneath a stabilizer, muttered, “Because he thinks if he looks busy long enough, you’ll believe it.”

  “He’s literally napping behind the crystal tank.”

  Ren paused. “…That’s bold.”

  Closing Beat: “Self-Reflection (Sort Of)”

  By the end of the afternoon, Taiga was stretched out in a hammock strung between two storage racks, chewing on a gear-shaped cookie from the festival prep booth and watching the others work.

  Jiro plopped down next to him, covered in actual soot.

  “You know,” Taiga said, eyes following the Dart as steam hissed from a fresh valve test, “I may not do much, but I show up. And showing up’s important.”

  “You showed up, flirted with three girls, dropped a piston on your own foot, and invented a new kind of torque-related nonsense,” Jiro replied flatly.

  “Exactly,” Taiga grinned. “I’m the emotional ballast.”

  Jiro didn’t even argue.

  Scene 4: “Mei and Hana Talk”

  —-: Hana

  The workshop had mostly emptied out. The clatter of tools had faded into soft echo. Most of the others had gone to dinner, and Taiga had wandered off claiming he was “studying thermal dynamics through food.”

  Hana sat cross-legged on a bench with her head lowered over a disassembled stabilizer valve, its tiny copper veins splayed like nerves across the cloth. Her fingers were fast, meticulous—but her thoughts were anything but.

  “Left port’s too narrow,” came Mei’s quiet voice behind her. “It’ll overpressurize at altitude.”

  Hana didn’t jump. Mei had that way of arriving like a ghost—silent, almost polite. Hana tilted her head, expression guarded. “Didn’t ask for help.”

  “I know.” Mei stepped beside her and crouched. “Didn’t need permission either.”

  Hana frowned, but didn’t argue. “How’d you see that flaw so fast?”

  Mei traced a finger along the microfracture with eerie precision. “You learn to look ahead when you’ve crashed once.”

  The silence that followed had weight. Hana stopped adjusting the valve. Her breath hitched—just a little. “You were a pilot.”

  Mei didn’t answer at first. She stood, moving to a nearby shelf. It was quiet, calm. Then, as if commenting on the weather:

  “I was eleven. Regional trials. I overcorrected a left-bank drift. Core flooded. I clipped a cooling tower.”

  Hana turned to fully face her now, stunned. “That was you? The crash they made all the new rules about?”

  “They blamed design,” Mei said, still not looking at her. “But I designed it. I flew it. I failed.”

  There was no tremor in her voice—only resignation, like she’d played the moment a thousand times in her head and couldn’t edit it anymore.

  “You didn’t fail,” Hana said softly. “You survived. That matters.”

  Mei finally met her eyes. “You’re scared of failing, too.”

  Hana blinked. “What—”

  “You mask it better,” Mei said. “Fix faster, talk louder. But I’ve seen it. That look. Like you’re waiting for everyone to realize you’re just… holding the ship together with luck and overcompensation.”

  That hit too close. Hana turned away.

  “So now what?” Hana murmured. “You’re not flying again. You’re not here to race. Why stay?”

  Mei moved beside her again. “Because you can still fly. And someone should make sure the wind doesn’t eat you alive.”

  Hana’s throat tightened. She looked down at the stabilizer again, then back at Mei’s hands—steady, efficient, guiding without pride.

  “You’re… staying?” Hana whispered.

  “I won’t pilot again,” Mei said, softer this time. “But I’ll help you win.”

  The two girls worked silently, side by side, the stabilizer between them like a fragile truce. Outside, the workshop windows glowed blue with crystal light, and the distant hum of test engines vibrated in the floorboards beneath them.

  Scene 5: “Rin Watches Old Footage”

  —-: Rin

  Rin sat cross-legged on her futon, a cup of untouched tea cooling beside her. The room was dim except for the flickering glow of her old aether-projector, casting soft, pale light against the far wall. Shadows of gears and steam piping danced across her curtains as the projector clicked, loading a crystal reel labeled in fading ink: Training – Aoyama 7th Trial Flight.

  The static crackled. Then light.

  A younger Rin appeared on-screen, maybe eight years old, all gangly limbs and stubborn eyes beneath her oversized goggles. The camera bobbed slightly, as if handheld. And next to her—

  Her mother.

  Tall. Composed. A sharp, confident figure in her pilot’s coat, one glove tucked into her belt, the other hand resting on the shoulder of the smaller version of Rin.

  Rin’s throat clenched.

  “Watch your drag line, Rinko,” her mother’s voice came from the reel, clipped and calm. “The wind doesn’t care about excuses.”

  Younger Rin nodded fast, almost bouncing in place.

  The next scene flickered — the cockpit. Her mother in the pilot’s seat, Rin strapped in behind, gripping the co-pilot yoke with trembling fingers. The hull vibrated as they lifted, the crystal hum growing to a harmonic whine. A wide shot showed them curving through rings in tight spirals, almost dancing in the sky.

  And then — that laugh.

  Rin hadn’t heard it in years. Her mother, genuinely laughing as they banked hard through a ring sequence, the wind catching her hair, the sunlight glittering off the silver feather insignia bolted to the ship’s nose.

  She looked so alive.

  The projector clicked again, fizzling briefly. The next frame was empty sky. Then: static. Then…

  Silence.

  Rin pressed pause.

  She sat frozen, hand hovering near the dial.

  That was the last reel. There had never been one after that. No post-race celebration. No follow-up training. Just the final public headline two months later: “Pilot Aoyama Lost in Typhoon Surge – Flight Recorder Unrecovered.”

  Rin shut off the projector. The sudden silence rang in her ears. The glow vanished.

  She didn’t move.

  Didn’t cry.

  Didn’t blink.

  Just whispered, “I’m not her.”

  Then—quieter, to no one—

  “But I want to be.”

  She slid the crystal reel back into its case, tucked it into her drawer, and stood. She looked out her window toward the hangars, her eyes sharp again, but tired at the edges.

  Tomorrow, the sky would demand something new.

  And she’d give it—whether it broke her or not.

  Scene 6: “Final Words from Ms. Shiraishi”

  —-: Ren

  Ren sat with one boot up on the crossbar of his desk, his pencil tapping restlessly against his lip. The lecture hall buzzed with low chatter—exhausted brains and twitching muscles from a full week of maintenance drills, steam-cycle theory, and ring pattern memorization. Taiga was halfway asleep behind him. Hana was flipping through her notes like a scholar possessed. Rin... was absent.

  Again.

  Ms. Shiraishi stood by the wide chalkboard, her sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair pinned in a half-cascade of ink-dark strands. She hadn’t spoken in at least a minute. Just stared at them. No smile. No sigh. No teasing rebuke. Just silence that wrapped around the class like coiling copper wire.

  The room finally quieted.

  Ms. Shiraishi set down her chalk.

  Then, slowly, deliberately, she reached into the inner pocket of her vest and pulled out a small, metallic case. From it, she slid a folded, oil-stained sheet—an old event flier. She held it up.

  It read:

  Regional Sky League Exhibition: Hinode vs. Kyokuto – Postponed Due to Incident.

  The image was grainy, but unmistakable: two midair ships in a spiraling descent, smoke trailing from the tail of one, a red streak across its balloon.

  Whispers rippled through the class.

  Jiro leaned toward Ren. “That’s from four years ago, isn’t it?”

  Ren nodded slowly. The name “Kyokuto” had been dropped a few times in training briefings. Always followed by silence. Always with a grim look.

  Ms. Shiraishi finally spoke, her voice low and even.

  “Some of you weren’t here the last time we faced Kyokuto Academy. Most of you were still in primary school.”

  She let the words hang, then walked slowly down the center aisle of desks.

  “They don’t fly like us. They don’t care about style points or exhibition scores. They don’t race to win.” Her gaze swept over them, landing squarely on Ren.

  “They race to eliminate.”

  The room tensed.

  “They are precise. Ruthless. Mechanical. Their crafts are faster, colder. They play within the rules… but only just.” She turned. “And they have no hesitation about clipping another ship’s wings if it means staying on course.”

  Ren’s fingers clenched around his pencil.

  Ms. Shiraishi stopped at the front again, arms folded.

  “You will face them in two weeks.”

  “By then,” she said, her voice hardening to tempered steel, “you’d better know exactly who you are up there.”

  Taiga raised a hand weakly. “Like, metaphorically?”

  Ms. Shiraishi didn’t answer. She turned to the chalkboard and drew a single vertical line. Then a tiny airship below it.

  “There’s no metaphor in freefall.”

  She set down the chalk and walked out.

  Scene 7: “Closing Image”

  —-: Third-Person Limited (Ren)

  The hum of crystal converters had long since faded into the background hush of the academy grounds. Outside, the lanterns from the week’s festival still swayed on strings overhead, their soft glow dimming one by one as the school powered down for the night. The courtyard gates were locked. The steam vents had gone quiet.

  But Hangar 3 still breathed.

  Inside, the Silver Dart sat cradled in scaffolding and lantern light. Sheets of tarp had been pulled halfway over the frame, but its feathered silhouette still cut through the darkness like the memory of a wingbeat. The hull bore scuffs, heat scoring, a cracked stabilizer panel yet to be replaced. But it gleamed—softly, proudly—as if it knew eyes had been on it today, and would be again tomorrow.

  Ren stood in the middle of the hangar, one hand still resting on the nacelle's edge, his other clutching a cloth he’d forgotten to finish using. His knuckles were dusted with copper smudges. His eyes were on the nose of the ship.

  There—dead center above the intake housing—gleamed the small, burnished emblem they’d found in the junk pile: the feather crest, now bolted firm. It shimmered as the moonlight caught the steam rising gently from the warm metal around it.

  It looked like a warning.

  Or maybe… a promise.

  Behind him, the sound of a wrench clattered from the tool bench.

  Ren turned, but the hangar was empty.

  No Jiro.

  No Hana.

  No Rin.

  No Grandpa sneaking around in shadow.

  Just the wind curling through the gaps in the planks, nudging steam trails like ghost trails from a dream.

  Ren stepped back, stared at the ship again. His hand dropped from the hull. He took a breath.

  You’ll fly again tomorrow.

  And the day after that.

  And soon—against the academy that didn’t race… but hunted.

  The wind shifted outside. A cold breath down the eaves.

  The feather crest gleamed.