Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Meanwhile, the observation group on the hillside was also drawn to the sound coming from the sky. The sound rolled in from afar, unlike thunder or howling wind, but more like a heavy, pressing presence that instinctively made people want to shrink back.
"Completely concealed..."

Liris Ragemane attempted to give a negative assessment.

Her lips parted, and a voice squeezed out from her throat, carrying an arrogant "I've seen it all" attitude.

However, when it came to the second half of the sentence, he simply couldn't say it no matter what.

Her tongue seemed to be stuck on something, the syllables were stuck between her teeth, turning into indistinct, meaningless mumbling.

A soldier's instinct?
Have.

The erudition of the nobility?
Have.

But none of these are the most important. The most important thing is that inexplicable palpitation, that palpitation that tries to break through the body. That palpitation doesn't come from the outside; it grows from the chest cavity, sprouts from a crack in the heart, like a vine that has been suppressed for a long time, finally finding an exit to climb.

Along with the palpitations, there was a wave of fear washing over me.

That fear wasn't just apprehension; it was a more primal, instinctive, almost genetic, alertness to predators. The moment the iron bird began to sway, goosebumps appeared on her skin. From her arms to her shoulders, from her shoulders to her neck, they spread out like tiny, raised armor bursting across her skin.

The four iron birds adopted a four-aircraft formation tactic, which is a versatile tactical formation, usually composed of two two-aircraft formations, combining offensive and defensive capabilities with formation stability.

It is not the kind of performance formation that requires fancy maneuvers, but a combat formation that has been used on the battlefield, tested in actual combat, and where every position has a clear tactical significance.

Leading the way was Arslan, who was in charge of the formation. Flying in a two-plane formation with him was Delamar, the former second-in-command of Dawn Fortress and now the deputy head of the Naval Aviation Academy. His plane followed closely to Arslan's right rear, maintaining a standard combat distance—neither too close to collide nor too far to break apart.

The lead aircraft of the other team was the head of training for the raiding ships on Duruch's side, who was also the deputy head of the Naval Aviation Academy. According to seniority, Darkus would have to call her aunt; she was the wife of his uncle Wizlin, a typical Southern sorceress.

Her flying style was just like her personality—unassuming, not showy, but every movement was so precise it looked like it had been measured with a ruler. And the one in charge of bringing up the rear was naturally the "idle" Kallien.

He was supposed to be Darkus's driver, and he did, but that was before the dive bomber came along. Obsessed with speed and extreme sports, he naturally grew tired of new things once they appeared.

What's so interesting about a steering wheel compared to a joystick?
Running on the ground is nothing compared to the thrill of flying in the sky.

What's more, it can also dive.

Arslan, who was in charge of leading the team, had a lot to do. He determined the current altitude by scanning the instrument panel, where the altimeter needle was trembling steadily. He also checked if there was a headwind. He felt the airflow coming in from the vents on his cheek. The wind vane arrow pointed to his left, indicating a crosswind that needed to be compensated for.

Next, he had to align the iron bird with the wind direction line and establish an attack axis. It wasn't a matter of "looking," but rather "feeling." Through the subtle vibrations transmitted through the control stick, the slight yaw of the fuselage, and the changes in the wind sound detected by his ears, he slowly and precisely pointed the nose of the aircraft towards the seemingly empty ground, a target he had already locked onto countless times in his mind.

He quickly completed the final adjustments before the attack.

The three iron birds followed in turn, not simultaneously, but sequentially. Each bird began its own movement only after the previous one had completed its adjustments, like a string of firecrackers lit at the same time but with different fuse lengths.

Five seconds later, he manipulated the control stick and gently swayed the iron bird's wings—a signal, a silent question: "I'm ready, are you?"

Delamal and the lead aircraft then responded in turn, their wings swaying slightly, like an echo of a sentence.

Finally, Callion, who was bringing up the rear, responded with the largest swing, making almost the entire plane shake, as if to say, "I've been ready for you all along."

After seeing that Kallien had completed the confirmation, Arslan turned to look ahead. His gaze passed through the windshield, through the blurry halo formed by the spinning propeller, and landed on the distant river, on the vast, clear grassland on the opposite bank that had been marked countless times.

He then took a deep, forceful breath, as if trying to inhale the entire sky into his lungs. Next, he activated the speed brakes. The metal plates above the wings flipped up, like a pair of brake hands, disrupting the airflow above the wings and causing the plane to begin to slow down.

At this point, he no longer needed to look back.

There's no point in turning back.

The pilots were selected from the best of the best; all four were highly skilled, each a "Golden Helmet" in the parlance of the other world, and they had undergone extensive training beforehand. Their coordination required no words, no eye contact; just a few flaps of the wings were enough.

Then, just like the gesture Kallien had made to him during takeoff, Arslan rolled 180 degrees to the left—flying backwards. In that instant, the sky moved from above his head to below his feet, and the earth moved from below his feet to above his head.

His body was tightly strapped to the seat by the seatbelt, blood began to rush to his head, and a faint dark red appeared at the edges of his vision. He pulled back on the stick, pointing the nose of the plane towards the ground, while simultaneously reducing the throttle to idle. The engine's roar changed from a high-pitched howl to a low, labored breath, and the propeller's speed decreased.

The dive began.

At this moment, it was more than just the sound of engines.

The airflow-driven sound generator located above the landing gear also begins to function as the dive begins.

It was a set of steel blades, fan-shaped, mounted on a shaft. Due to the engine's limited power, the oncoming airflow was not fast enough to make it make any noise during level flight; it just turned low and lazily, like an old windmill that had been idle for a long time.

However, upon entering the dive, the speed rapidly increases, and the high-speed airflow impacts the rotor blades, causing their rotational speed to soar to thousands of revolutions per minute. The steel blades cut through the air, generating invisible but powerful air pressure pulsations capable of tearing eardrums. The stator generates pressure waves, and the housing, a cylindrical structure made of stamped steel, with the stator fixed at the front and a resonating cavity connected to the airflow outlet at the rear, begins to constrain the direction of the airflow, amplifying the sound.

A piercing sound, somewhere between a whistle and an organ pipe, emerged.

The sound didn't come from one place; it surged in from all directions at the same time, as if ten thousand harpies were opening their mouths above your head and uttering howls that could terrify mortals.

"The Howl of the Harpy"—this name was given by Calien.

There's no such thing as the Horn of Jericho. In another world, Jericho has a story and a source; in this world, it doesn't. So it's called the Howl of the Harpy—direct, brutal, and you can tell what it is just by hearing it.

The sound was undoubtedly jarring to Arslan's hearing and brain. His eardrums vibrated, his skull resonated, and his teeth ached.

But deep down, this voice held a magical power over him.

This is what he likes, this is what he wants to hear.

When that sound appeared, there was no annoyance, only pleasure and excitement. It was a highly compressed pleasure, like a spring rebounding from its limit, an almost morbid excitement of finding ultimate security amidst extreme danger. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly at that moment, not in a smile, but in a self-affirmation that "it has finally begun."

Amidst the piercing sound, Arslan adjusted his dive angle, reaching seventy degrees—not vertical, but very close. The angle between the nose and the horizon widened, to the point that sitting in the cockpit, you felt as if you were plummeting face-first to the earth.

As the altitude rapidly decreased, the speed of the iron bird also rapidly increased.

The airspeed indicator on the dashboard spun rapidly clockwise, from 200 to 300, from 300 to 400, and still climbing. The scenery outside the window went from blurry to streaked; bridges, rivers, and battlefields all became indistinguishable blocks of color rushing backward. Overload began to press down on Arslan, his body pressed deep into the canvas of the seat, blood rushing from his head downwards, and his vision began to darken.

"I suddenly lost interest in motorcycles."

The moment the iron bird began its dive, Drakil, who had been lying on the deck, suddenly stood up. He moved so fast that he almost slipped off the deck, but he didn't care.

His expression was one of euphoria, the kind of euphoria only seen on the faces of extreme sports enthusiasts, a mixture of fear and ecstasy. His eyes gleamed, pupils dilated to their limit, irises almost becoming thin rings. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing rapid, and his chest heaving violently.

Whether it's Duruci, Asur, or Enil and Asley, they are all essentially elves. They have an inexplicable obsession with diving and speed, an obsession written in their genes, one of the fundamental logics of elves.

It's not 'liking', it's 'needing'!
I need the feeling of the wind whistling past my ears, the image of the earth unfolding rapidly beneath my feet, and the thrill of repeatedly testing the limits, the feeling of "I could die at any moment, but I'm still alive."

Kayla Mayne also stood up, nodding repeatedly in agreement with Dragil's statement. His gaze was fixed on the four iron birds in the sky, watching them dive towards the earth at an almost vertical angle, watching their wings tremble slightly in the high-speed airflow, and watching their contrails draw four parallel, straight white lines in the sky.

However, the dive of the iron bird is not so friendly to pontoon bridge units.

Initially, four iron birds flew overhead, heading towards the other side of the river. The sound descended from above, drowning out all the shouts and the sound of the flowing river, becoming the sole sound in the world.

The soldiers looked up as the four iron birds flew overhead, their shadows sweeping over them, and then, after a somersault, flew back towards them.

The sound returned from afar, growing louder and more unsettling as it drew closer.

"Get down!"

As the engine and the harpy's howl suddenly amplified, the sound was no longer just heard, but felt; it came from the soles of the feet, from the spine, from the skull, and the whole body resonated.

As the Black Knights, playing members of the directing team, raised the red flag, the officers shouted. The shouts were hoarse and strained, their vocal cords almost torn apart, but amidst the cacophony of shrill cries, the shouts were like a leaf thrown into a storm, instantly swallowed up.

Due to the forces of physics and the continuous construction by the soldiers, with the rocker arm roller as the midpoint, one side of the bridge is suspended over the river, while the other half rests on the roller. At this point, the soldiers are no longer needed as human weight-adding devices.

So they lay down.

It wasn't an elegant, composed fall; it was a scramble, but extremely quick, "thump" as the knees hit the ground first, then the hands, then the elbows, and finally the whole body pressed against the ground.

Although their bodies were prone, their heads were raised; no one dared to close their eyes. Their eyes were wide open, almost bursting at the corners, watching the rapidly approaching iron birds, watching their fuselages and wings grow larger, clearer, and increasingly filling their entire field of vision. They could see the paint scheme on the wings, the propeller hubs, and the sunlight reflecting off the cockpit windshield. The silhouettes of the four iron birds were reflected in their pupils, like four burning arrows piercing their eyes.

The Black Knights, who had been standing, no longer cared about "representing Malekith." They also lay down without any decorum. Some lay in the mud, some on the gravel, and some on tools that someone had just discarded. As members of the directing team, they knew that the Iron Birds' dives weren't just for diving; they could do other things too.

That's something you can't just stand there and bear it.

The dive phase is very fast.

After all, this is a dive bomber specifically designed for dive attacks.

In just a few seconds, the shapes of these iron birds changed from "small black dots in the sky" to "large iron blocks overhead", and from "large iron blocks overhead" to "steel behemoths rushing towards us".

You can see the transparent disc formed by the rotating propeller in front of the nose, and the black, streamlined object that looks like a giant water droplet mounted under the wing.

The object had a blunt, rounded front end and a narrower rear end, with four small tail fins, and remained motionless in the high-speed airflow.

When the altitude dropped to two thousand meters, Arslan observed the target through the sight. The sight was simple, with a crosshair and a few markings, no electronic equipment, no automatic calculations, relying entirely on the pilot's eyes and experience. He used the rudder and ailerons to fine-tune the course, ensuring the fixed sight remained stable when it coincided with the dive line.

The center point of the crosshairs was firmly fixed on the empty grassland on the opposite bank of the river. There were no trees, no houses, nothing to avoid, only grass and soil, not even a pre-drawn, white, huge circle.

When the altitude reached 1,200 meters, he pressed the bomb release button. It was a red, raised button that required a firm press with the thumb.

The moment he pressed the button, he felt the fuselage suddenly lighten, as if something heavy had been lifted off his body. Due to his perspective, he couldn't see the bomb detaching, but he heard a short, sharp "click" of metal separating from metal, followed by a few seconds of silence.

Those few seconds of silence sounded especially eerie against the backdrop of the harpy's howls.

Then, he pulled the control lever hard, his arm muscles bulging, veins stretching from the back of his hand all the way to his forearm.

The engine began to output full power, and the propeller accelerated sharply from idle to full speed. The speed brakes began to retract, and the two metal plates that had been raised above the wings slowly but inevitably fell back onto the wing surface under the push of the hydraulic actuators.

After he finished pulling himself up, he wanted to look back, but at that moment, he couldn't turn back.

He was experiencing intense overload, not in numbers, but in sensation. It was the feeling of blood being suddenly drained from his head, his vision darkening from the edges, and a black veil appearing before his eyes; it was the feeling of his internal organs being pulled downwards, his ribs feeling like they were about to break, and his breathing becoming extremely difficult; it was the feeling of his consciousness beginning to blur, his pupils dilating, and his brain beginning to warn him, "I'm going to faint."

He could only stare at the flight altitude, his lips moving silently, as if telling himself, "Hang in there, just a little longer."

When the altitude reached 700 meters, the iron bird completed its dive and switched to level flight.

The overload dropped from six Gs to one G in an instant, and the feeling of being "released" made his body jolt. Blood rushed back to his brain, his vision cleared, and his breathing became smooth again. He gasped for breath, like a drowning person finally pulled ashore. The corners of his mouth turned up again, a smile that contained the relief of "I'm still alive" and the triumph of "I did it."

At this moment, Dakos on the hillside had already spread his legs apart, firmly planted on the ground like two old trees rooted in the soil. His knees were slightly bent, his center of gravity was lowered, and he looked like a cat preparing to withstand an impact.

He then glanced at Aris, who was holding the Moon Bow beside him. The moment the iron bird began to swoop down, Aris took the Moon Bow off his back, nocked an arrow, drew the string taut, and aimed at the iron bird.

That's a soldier's instinct, ingrained in his bones, an automatic reflex that activates the moment he sees a threat.

His keen intuition made him turn to look at Darkus, not at his face, but at his posture. He saw Darkus with his legs spread apart, his body lowered, and his knees slightly bent, as if waiting for something. He looked at Darkus with surprise. What are you doing? Why are you in that position?

Darkus ignored him and looked at the sky on the opposite bank. The first three iron birds had finished dropping their bombs and were pulling up, while below them were three black, rapidly falling, and increasingly larger objects.

That's a bomb!

The next second, a violent explosion rang out.

That wasn't a single explosion, but a multi-layered explosion. The sound waves seemed compressed into a solid, expanding outward from the explosion's center, creating a visible, transparent, distorted spherical shockwave in the air. The shockwave struck the ground, bounced off, then struck the air again, bounced off again, forming a series of continuous, deafening roars, like ten thousand drums being struck simultaneously.

The sound was so loud that it momentarily rendered one's ears useless, so loud that one felt their skull resonating, so loud that one forgot to breathe. Soil, grass clippings, and pebbles were hurled into the sky, forming a black, ever-expanding column of smoke. At the base of this column was a still-burning, orange-red fireball, which tumbled, rose, and expanded within the smoke column, like a blooming flower leading to the underworld.

Smoke and dust spread outward from the explosion's epicenter, like a gray, high-speed moving wall, engulfing everything in its path. Grass was flattened, soil was turned upside down, and everything disappeared as if it had never existed.

In that instant, Aris's eyes widened in shock, his pupils contracted to pinpoints, and his lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

At the same time, he also understood why Darkus was standing there, because in the next instant, the shockwave from the explosion traveled through the ground to his feet.

The tremor wasn't a shaking, but a jolt; it was as if the earth's crust, in that instant, was like a steel plate being struck, suddenly bouncing upwards.

Fortunately, he was a battle-hardened soldier, and his body automatically adjusted in that instant, spreading his legs apart, lowering his center of gravity, and slightly bending his knees, like a sailor in a ship's cabin dealing with a sudden surge of waves.

He adjusted his pace to avoid stumbling.

Then came the sound of a second explosion. Slightly farther away than the first, but equally violent and deafening. Another column of smoke rose from the ground, standing side by side with the first, like two black, still-growing pillars. Soon came the third. Three columns of smoke, three still-burning fireballs, three large, still-smoking craters created by the blast.

The others on the hillside weren't as lucky as Aris. Some staggered, leaning forward and backward, their arms flailing wildly in the air, trying to grab onto something to steady themselves; some swayed violently, as if someone had pushed them from behind, lurching forward two steps before barely managing to stand; some sat down directly on the ground, not out of fear, but because they genuinely couldn't stand; some simply lay prone on the ground—an instinctive, primal, and safest reaction to the tremors.

In an instant, they made a complete fool of themselves.

Just seconds before, the Asur nobles were observing through binoculars, gazing into the distance with their hands on their foreheads, and whispering amongst themselves while pointing at a point in the distance. Now, some were helping each other up, some were brushing the dirt off their bodies, some were checking themselves for injuries, and others were just standing there blankly, staring vacantly at the few plumes of smoke still rising in the distance.

The plume of smoke had risen very high, like several black pillars, standing between heaven and earth, lingering for a long time. The top of the smoke was spreading, blending with the clouds, making it impossible to distinguish which was cloud and which was smoke.

The moment the explosion occurred, the entire scene seemed to freeze. The drivers of the convoy forgot how to drive properly; some released the accelerator, some stepped on the brakes, and some took their hands off the steering wheel, all looking towards the location of the explosion.

Their mouths were open, and they forgot to close them.

The marching soldiers also stopped in unison. Their legs, which had been moving a moment ago, froze in mid-air, like statues frozen in time. Their gazes turned sharply to the still-smoking grassland. The soldiers perfecting the fortifications also stopped what they were doing. Some were filling sandbags with soil, shovels raised high but not falling; others were driving wooden stakes, hammers raised but not brought down; still others were pulling barbed wire, gloves still clutching the ends of the wire, but their hands were motionless.

But there were only three explosions, because the fourth one—Kalion—did something crazy.

Unlike the previous three iron birds, he didn't complete the bombing as planned, not because he couldn't, but because he didn't want to. He found it too boring, too mechanical, and too uninteresting.

He changed the dive angle, adjusting it to fifty degrees instead of the previous seventy degrees.

This means his flight path is flatter, giving him more time to adjust and aim during the dive, but it also means that the accuracy of the bombing will be reduced, because when the bomb leaves the plane, the attitude is closer to horizontal, and the initial velocity of the bomb is closer to forward rather than downward, making the landing point more difficult to predict.

So he dropped the bomb at a lower altitude.

He pressed the bomb release button when the altitude reached 500 meters.

In that instant, his fuselage suddenly felt lighter, but instead of pulling up immediately like Arslan, he waited another second to allow the plane to dive at a greater angle and to improve the bomb's detachment attitude.

Then he pulled the control stick to level off. Because he dropped the bomb at nearly a 60-degree angle, the bomb did not fall straight down, but instead skipped across the air, tracing an elegant, long, and almost straight path.

The trajectory started from under the plane's belly, extended forward, drew an arc, crossed the still-smoking, cratered grass, and then crashed into the river, between two iron bridges under construction.

In an instant, water splashed everywhere.

A white column of water rose from the river, whiter and brighter than the smoke column beside it. The tip of the column dispersed into a fine mist, refracting the sunlight to create a brief, fleeting rainbow. The river water, like a piece of glass struck by a boulder, rippled outwards in huge, surging waves, causing the bridge under construction to sway violently.

The soldiers weren't stupid. Although they didn't know who was piloting the iron bird, they knew that this fourth iron bird was definitely doing something crazy. Otherwise, why would the first three bombs hit the grassland on the other side, while this bomb hit the water and landed not far from them?

That wasn't a mistake, that was intentional!
Someone was showing off their skills, using a provocative method that they couldn't understand but could sense, to tell everyone, including them: "Watch closely, this is real skill."

In an instant, the soldiers, who were splashed with water, greeted each other in different ways.

The question marks were so loud and full of meaning that everyone on the hillside could hear them. Those long and short sounds, each carrying different emotions, drifted from the other side of the riverbank, through the smoke and dust, across the water, and through the wind, finally reaching the ears of the observation group members on the hillside.

Darkus shook his head speechlessly and laughed. There was a hint of helplessness in his smile, like "I knew it would turn out like this," and a hidden admiration, like "Well done." His shoulders were trembling slightly, and the corners of his mouth were wider than usual, but the light in his eyes wasn't anger, it was amusement.

"What was that just now?" Aris's voice came from the side, his tone carrying a sigh of "Am I getting old?" and a hint of bewilderment that "I've never seen these things before."

“A bomb, a 500-kilogram bomb,” Darkus explained calmly.

His tone was as casual as saying "The weather's nice today," as if describing an ordinary, everyday, insignificant tool. But his gaze never left the still-smoking grassland, nor the three still-burning craters, each over ten meters in diameter.

Aris's heart was stirred. Although the first three bombs hit grassy areas without targets, buildings, or personnel, and there was no target to assess the damage, he saw the large craters created by the bombs.

The crater was a bowl-shaped wound left by the enormous energy released by the 500 kilograms of explosives in milliseconds, which hurled soil and rocks into the air. The bottom of the crater was still smoking, and flames were still licking at its edges.

The diameter of the crater was larger than any crater he had ever seen created by a catapult.

The pit was so deep that he felt he wouldn't be able to see out from the bottom if he put himself in it.

At that moment, he knew that traditional military tactics and strategies were completely outdated.

It's not "may become outdated", it's not "about to become outdated", it's "already outdated"!
From that moment on, from the moment the first bomb landed, from the moment that black, streamlined, tail-like object fell from the sky, touched the ground, and released all its energy, everything was different.

City walls?

Unstoppable.

Shield Formation?

Unstoppable.

Cavalry charge?

They'll be blown to pieces before they can even get halfway there.

Legion?

A hundred-man squad, a hundred soldiers, clad in armor, carrying shields, lined up in neat rows. If that bomb had landed in such a formation, he was certain that none of those hundred soldiers would have survived.

It wasn't just "heavy casualties," it was "no one survived."

It's not that "most will die," it's that "no one will survive."

He could even picture the scene: the moment the bomb fell, everyone would look up, and then nothing would happen.

But after explaining the bomb, Darkus didn't elaborate further. He simply looked at Aris with a meaningful gaze, at the moon bow in his hand. There was no mockery, no smugness in that look, only a calm "I want to hear your opinion."

"Can we shoot it down?"

"Yes, it's possible! But would it make sense?"

Ares answered quickly, as if he had already considered the question. His expression became unusually serious, his brows furrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line. He turned his gaze from the still-smoking grass to the bow in his hand.

The bow was silver, its body engraved with the phases of the moon, from new moon to full moon, and from full moon to waning moon. The string was silver, gleaming coldly even in the sunlight.

This bow was once his pride, a weapon that had accompanied him for thousands of years, slaying countless enemies and never missing its mark. But now, holding it, he felt a sense of unfamiliarity he had never experienced before.

It's not that the bow has changed, it's that the world has changed...

“Hmm…it’s pointless.” Darkus’s voice was low, as if he were talking to himself. He shifted his gaze from Aris’s face back to the distant river. His chin nodded slightly, a small but firm nod.

"What was that just now?" Alessand's voice trembled with fear, his fingers shaking slightly.

"I don't know!" Rahil's words were tinged with fear. His face was pale, his lips were bloodless, his pupils were dilated, and his breathing was rapid.

As he spoke, he kept shaking his head, with large movements and a fast frequency, as if something had exploded in his brain and he was trying to shake it out.

Like Aris, he also knew that the moment the bombs fell and exploded, traditional military tactics and methods would become completely obsolete.

It's not "outdated", it's "invalid".

From the moment that bomb fell, all previous knowledge, experience, and lessons about war became worthless.

Amidst the murmurs on the hillside, Baine, his face grim, approached Daxus. His face was expressionless, but a fire burned in his eyes. He didn't question Daxus; his lips remained tightly pressed together, uttering no sound, but his expression spoke volumes.

What could Dakotas say?
He could only spread his hands, indicating that he had no way to help. The gesture was slow and innocent, as if to say, "I can't control him either."

Baine tried to speak, his lips parted in a slight curve, the first syllable already swirling in his throat. But he ultimately didn't utter a sound. He knew it was Karien's doing; he had known Karien for a long time, and Karien's personality was just like that—free-spirited, independent, disliked being bound by rules, and disliked following plans.

Otherwise, he wouldn't have become an "idle person".

It can only be said that there were some mistakes in the planning process—Kalion shouldn't have been involved!
His gaze shifted from Darkus's face to Malekith, who was still standing there. Malekith made no response—no nod, no shake, no frown, no sigh, not even turning to look at him. His gaze remained fixed on the still-smoking grassland, on the three rising plumes of smoke, his expression as calm as a still pond.

He knew that the matter was over.

Dakos glanced at Baine's retreating figure for two seconds, then turned his gaze to the river. His attention was drawn to the two bridges affected by the bomb blast, which were swaying slightly.

The shaking wasn't very strong, but it was quite noticeable.

The side panel was shaking, the anti-sway bracket was wobbling, and the few pins that had just been inserted were making a faint, rubbing sound in their slots, as if they were about to come out.

But having some knowledge of mechanics, he knew that the bridge, which was resting on the river, would not fall or collapse.

Because the weight of the riverbank is greater than the bridge deck, as long as the land portion is heavy enough, the portion suspended above the river won't capsize. However, he's certain that the bridge over the river has been damaged; whether it's structural or localized, he doesn't know…

But he was certain that the metal structure had been impacted, the stress at some nodes may have exceeded the design value, some bolts may have loosened, and some welds may have developed small cracks.

After all, that was a 500-kilogram bomb.

Shock waves travel faster and farther in water than in air, and have a greater impact on surrounding structures.

This is also why Baine came to him; the bridge had malfunctioned, which would delay the next steps. The convoy was still waiting to cross the river, the grassland on the other side was still waiting to be conquered, and every deadline on the schedule was extremely tight.

If one link in the chain has a problem, the links in the chain will all have problems.

However, this seems to be a good thing? These two bridges will now face a test, to see if the metal will still allow the convoy to cross the river smoothly after being impacted.

This is not an exercise; it is a real, unpredictable test that can only occur under actual combat conditions and cannot be fully simulated on paper.

If they can withstand the impact, it means the bridge's redundancy design is good enough to withstand unexpected events in actual combat. If they can't... Darkus didn't think further; this wasn't his concern, and there would always be a solution.

His gaze shifted from the two bridges to the sky.

The iron birds that had completed their dive attack did not fly away. They did not turn back, did not climb to cruising altitude, and did not disappear into the clouds. They flew level on this side of the river, at a very low altitude, low enough to see the outline of the pilot's face behind the cockpit windshield.

When Arslan swung the iron birds again, the four iron birds that had completed their four-plane formation dispersed. They no longer maintained that compact, balanced combat formation, but instead, like four kites released into the air, flew off in different directions, each searching for its own stage.

Next up is individual performance time. (End of Chapter)