It was night in Backlund.
A figure walked down the street. He was an ordinary man in a long black coat, his hat pulled firmly into place, his features utterly unremarkable.
Traces of the bombing were everywhere along the streets.
People from the churches, the kingdom, and civilian organizations still moved through the ruins, searching for survivors whose chances of survival were slim.
Severed limbs, corpses, and blood extinguished their hopes again and again.
Children cried for their parents, wives called for their husbands, and fathers murmured their sons' names.
Countless families had been torn apart that day, or even wiped out entirely.
Some people fell silent, some shed tears, and others cried until they fainted, only to wake and be overwhelmed by grief once more.
An atmosphere of sorrow enveloped the entire city.
And this was already the result of the Feysac airship squadron withdrawing early.
Had they lingered for another minute, there was no telling how many more families would have suffered, how many more tragedies would have unfolded.
The ordinary-looking man turned into an alley, avoiding several police officers coming toward him, then emerged onto another street and headed toward the East Borough.
"Good thing I wiped out a fleet from the Feysac Empire during the day and captured their general. It turns out the Feysac forces had another fleet waiting at sea, ready to destroy the kingdom's shipyards after dawn."
The man spoke in a voice only he could hear. Anyone who overheard him would certainly have been shocked.
This was hardly information an ordinary passerby could know.
Indeed, he was no ordinary passerby.
He was Sifa.
After destroying that Feysac Fleet, the Third Fleet under Sifa's command had gained some precious time to rest.
At dawn, they would set out again to attack another Feysac