Warhammer: Hail to the Void Lords!.

Chapter 896, page 08.895: 'Night Witch' Air Force

On the expansive aircraft parking apron of the Provocation-class light cruiser HMS Rising Feather, the air was filled with the distinctive, cold smell of the air circulation system, a mixture of ozone and engine oil.

As the massive silhouette of the first bomber pierced through the shield and came into view, a suppressed commotion broke out amidst the otherwise efficient and orderly activity on the deck.

One after another.

These were not the sleek, gleaming new bombers depicted in Imperial Navy propaganda posters, but rather squadrons of weathered Predator-class atmospheric bombers.

These ancient war machines are living fossils of the Empire's technological stagnation—their bodies are covered with rough repair welds and bullet holes and burns left by countless battles, like faces etched with wrinkles.

However, every detail, from the gleaming cockpit glass to the rust-free landing gear hydraulic struts, silently hints at the impeccable, almost obsessive attention to detail of these fighter pilots.

With a heavy groan of pressure relief from the hydraulic rods, the hatch slowly opened.

The pilots and crew members who descended the gangway were all women.

Their faces were cold and professional, and they wore customized black flight suits, with tight jackets that accentuated their strong and powerful bodies, which were the result of rigorous training.

Perhaps due to their lineage from the frozen world of Valhalla, their skin is exceptionally fair, and they are generally tall.

They exude a reliable quality, like those soldiers found only in the most elite special forces.

Their eyes held no desire for recognition, nor did they care about the scrutinizing gazes cast upon them by the Imperial Navy officers and soldiers around them; they knew their own worth and expected others to know it as well.

Within the rigid hierarchy of the empire, any non-standard existence would invite suspicion, criticism, and rejection.

The all-female composition of this unit, its unofficial nickname, and its legendary unconventional tactics all make them stand out from the crowd.

While their outstanding achievements were valuable, they also made them stand out in the more dogmatic conventional forces.

"Salute to the officer!!"

As a loud and clear female voice rang out, the sound of hundreds of military boots stomping their feet in unison echoed across the takeoff deck.

On the high reviewing corridor, Horatio stood with his hands behind his back, his void-blue, gold-plated commander's cloak billowing slightly behind him despite the lack of wind. He looked down at the square formation of people in black flight suits below.

Behind the female soldiers, the massive "Starhawk" void bombers and "Raider" atmospheric bombers were neatly parked behind them, like docile steel behemoths.

The ground crew—the men and women who make those behemoths take to the skies—are now leaning against the massive tires, landing gear, and scaffolding, watching this brief but solemn review with awe and curiosity.

"'Night Witches' are all present and reporting for duty! Please inspect them!"

The female officer standing at the front of the line looked up and shouted at Horatio.

She had short, fiery orange hair and wore a crisp Soviet-style boat cap.

Her eyes shone brightly, filled with the indomitable spirit unique to the Valhalla people.

However, her tightly furrowed brows, so different from the curious, naive, and joyful expressions of her comrades behind her, silently told Horatio that there was a story behind her.

Behind her, the female pilots were mostly young, generally in their early twenties, with the older ones no more than their early thirties.

They all looked up, their eyes filled with curiosity, gazing up at the unusually young, yet imposing and tall naval officer, resembling an Astartes monk. ['Night Witch'...]
This nickname, like a pebble thrown into a deep lake of memory, instantly awakened Horatio's dormant memories deep within his soul.

Hiss... 588... Night Witch...

A long-forgotten fragment of history from another world flashed through his mind—during the Great Patriotic War, to resist the fascist onslaught of steel, a female air squadron, piloting rudimentary agricultural biplanes, glided like ghosts through the night, casting death upon the invaders.

Their name is... the 588th Night Bomber Regiment, isn't it?!

Horatio had an instant realization.

History, in a strange and cruel way, has repeated itself in another time and space.

"I heard they're a newly formed air force? They don't look like new recruits." Horatio asked Anya Farshade beside him in a low voice without turning around.

As the chief air traffic controller, Anya Fasha, who has been promoted to naval aviator lieutenant colonel, is now in charge of coordinating all the fleet's flight groups.

She had all the information on these four flight squadrons.

"Yes, Commander. In terms of organization, the 588th and 587th Bombardment Regiments are newly established all-female air squadrons."

Fasha's tone was brief and professional, yet carried a subtle hint of respect. "But the vast majority of them were not new recruits. Many of them were the families of fallen soldiers—their daughters, their sisters, their wives, their fiancées. One tragedy after another pushed them onto the battlefield."

"Before being reorganized into the new air force, they had already participated in several brutal battles and military operations as the defense force of Valhalla's home planet."

After their combat effectiveness was recognized by the military high command, the Valhalla Military Affairs Department brought them together and contributed a tithe to the Imperial Navy, integrating them into two new air squadrons. Each of them was a highly skilled and courageous ace pilot and crew member.

Legends about them had already been circulating among soldiers on all fronts.

People whispered that they piloted outdated old planes, yet they could penetrate air defenses beyond the comprehension of ordinary people, and in the pitch-black night, they could destroy the enemy's heart with surgical precision.

Their nickname, "Night Witches," did not come from official documents, but rather from the awe they earned in the flames of war.

In the Valhalla dialect, their story is called "Saga"—a legend written in countless acts of heroism.

For ordinary soldiers who are often seen as nameless expendable in the Empire's meat grinder wars, creating their own legends is a powerful form of resistance against their anonymity.

It gave their short and cruel lives a meaning that transcended death.

This name is not just a call sign, but also the title of their collective story.

By embracing this name, they declared their identity and asserted that their sacrifice would be remembered.

Horatio stepped forward, looking down at the young, resolute faces gazing up at him. His voice, clear and powerful, resonated throughout the tarmac through the loudspeakers.

"Welcome to the Imperial Navy's Gothic Fleet, Saga. I am your new commander, High Lord Colonel Horatio Cochran."

At this moment, when Colonel Horatio Cochrane—their new commander—uttered the name 'Saga' in his formal welcoming address, it was an affirmation of their self-made legend.

(End of this chapter)