The heavy transport aircraft rose from below the horizon, skimming over the sea toward them at high speed through the warm red afterglow. Its nonreflective fuselage, covered in ablative armor, looked from afar like a large black seabird searching for food amid countless shattered glimmers of light at dusk. The airflow generated by the Pegasus Heavy Assault Transport's supersonic flight carved a deep black scar across the dazzling surface of the water, while the white waves churning on either side resembled molten-gold blood seeping from a wound beneath the lingering light.
Cassilius watched Salomon stand at the edge of the cliff, holding an ancient-looking spear in both hands.
The spear was not particularly long. Its shaft appeared to be made of dark brown wood, polished smooth, with a line of Runic Runes engraved upon it praising the coming victory. It was easy to imagine how much its owner had cherished this weapon. Yet blade and spear marks were plainly visible along the shaft, as though its previous owner had lacked the strength to repair those dreadful battle scars. In truth, the shaft was not simple wood, but an enigmatic, indestructible metal-like material with perfect balance and weight. It was exceptionally sturdy, and it was difficult to imagine what kind of enemy could have left permanent scars upon such material.
The iron-gray spearhead, roughly the size of an ordinary palm, appeared utterly unremarkable. Even beneath the brilliant light of the sun, it remained dull and lusterless, with what looked like traces of rust. No, that was not rust. It was the final trace left behind by lives that had died beneath this spear. Countless glories and ambitions had ended here, leaving only a smear of dried blood. The weapon seemed like a living creature, projecting its own thoughts outward and exuding