Under a sky veiled with light rain and clouds, the sound of the Yamato''s cannons were echoing across the sea. Who knows when the anti-aircraft guns last ceased firing. The world''s largest battleship was battered from all sides, artillery shells striking its hull, massive waves crashing against its frame. The deck was littered with dozens of wounded and dead. Everyone fought desperately, struggling to survive and return to their families. Yet they all knew how impossible that seemed. They needed something to ignite a flame inside them, a reason to keep fighting.


    Through the haze of gunpowder and sea spray, Frieda spotted a silhouette on the horizon. Not so far away, an enemy battleship was heading toward them, its guns already adjusting their aim. Frieda''s jaw tightened as she assessed the situation with practiced calculation. It was clear that the enemy ship was preparing to fire its cannons, and they had precious little time to respond.


    "TURN THE SHIP PORT SIDE!" her voice rose above the chaos.


    It turned painfully slow, like a turtle trying to rotate in mud. The ship had already taken multiple direct hits to its hull, making maneuverability even more difficult. Despite this, Captain Frieda led with unwavering strength. At twenty-two, she was young for such responsibility, but her military bearing and natural command presence made her age irrelevant. Everyone on board admired her commanding presence. With her piercing black eyes, rugged uniform that had seen too many battles, and authoritative personality honed through years of harsh training, she was the undisputed master of the battlefield.


    Her voice rang out again.


    "ARE THE GUNS STILL NOT LOADED?!"


    A wounded artillery officer, leaning against the cold metal wall with blood seeping through his bandages, responded wearily. His face bore the thousand-yard stare of a man who had seen too much death.


    "How can you still believe one more cannon shot will be able to save us? Nothing will change even if we fire ten more shots or empty our entire arsenal. This place is our grave. Look at the situation we are in. They are everywhere. They are all around us and we''re under constant fire. How can you still ask us to stand up and fight? At least, let us rest in peace... Captain."


    His words hung in the air, thick with defeat. Across the bridge, Frieda saw the same resignation reflected in the faces of her officers. They were agreeing with this sad truth, their spirits broken by days of relentless combat. The knowledge that they were fighting for a lost cause had finally settled into their bones.


    But she had a mission to complete, she couldn''t just give up. Frieda stormed over to the officer, her boots leaving wet footprints on the metal floor. She lifted him by his collar, ignoring the fresh blood that soaked through his uniform, and began berating him. Her voice was controlled but intense.


    "IF YOU WANT TO REST PEACEFULLY IN YOUR GRAVE, GET UP AND FIGHT. YOU WON''T FIND PEACE AS FISH FOOD IN THE DEPTHS OF THE OCEAN. YOU CAME HERE KNOWING YOU MAY DIE, AND I CAME HERE TO LEAD YOU TO VICTORY. YOU WILL GIVE YOUR LIFE TO ME, TO YOUR HOMELAND, SO YOUR CHILDREN CAN LIVE ONE MORE DAY. GET YOUR DAMN ASS UP AND HELP LOAD THE CANNONS!"


    The officer''s face revealed he had much more to say, a wealth of objections and bitter truths. But something in Frieda''s eyes—perhaps the sheer force of her conviction, or perhaps the recognition that she too understood the hopelessness of their situation but chose to fight anyway—silenced him. He chose silence, picked up his cap, and left, hobbling toward his station with renewed purpose, if not hope.


    Frieda turned to address the remaining crew on the bridge. Her uniform was spattered with blood, some her own, most belonging to others. Her black hair had come loose from its severe bun, framing her face with wild strands that made her look like an avenging Valkyrie. Despite the chaos around her, or perhaps because of it, she had never looked more in command.


    "IF YOUR CHILDREN, YOUR WIFE, YOUR MOTHER, WHATEVER THE HELL YOU VALUE MEAN ANYTHING TO YOU, YOU WILL DIE HERE FOR THEM. EVERYONE, BACK TO YOUR STATIONS!"


    Her words struck something primal in her crew. They might die today, probably would, but they would die with purpose, with meaning. Frieda witnessed the renewed determination, if not quite hope, on everyone''s faces on the bridge. The change was subtle but crucial. Their shoulders straightened, jaws set with resolve, hands steadied on controls and weapons. They moved with new purpose, their actions crisp and focused.


    "LISTEN, YOU WILL—"


    Her words were cut short as the ship shuddered with a massive explosion. The force of the blast threw Frieda off her feet, sending her crashing into a bank of instruments. Pain lanced through her body as she fell to the ground, momentarily unable to comprehend what had happened. The world spun around her, sounds muffled as if she were underwater. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears, drowning out the shouts and screams of her crew.


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    Despite her blurred vision, she forced herself to rise to her feet, using a nearby console for support. Blood trickled down her temple, but she ignored it, pushing through the disorientation to assess the damage. Through the cracked windows of the bridge, she saw one of the main gun turrets had been destroyed. Flames were rising wildly from the wreckage, threatening to spread to ammunition storage areas. They couldn''t risk the fire to spread. It would mean certain death for everyone aboard.


    Frieda quickly regained her composure. She rushed to a broken window, feeling the sharp sting of salt air against her face, and ordered those still standing on deck to extinguish the flames. Her voice was hoarse but still carried the weight of command.


    As she issued orders, movement above caught her attention. A shadow loomed over her, blotting out what little light filtered through the clouds. She froze momentarily, a chill running down her spine that had nothing to do with the rain soaking through her uniform. Looking up, she saw hundreds of aircraft flying overhead, their silhouettes unmistakable against the gray sky.


    Enemy bombers, wave after wave of them, and from their open bay doors came countless bombs falling toward them like rain.


    In that instant, time seemed to slow, and a flood of thoughts rushed through Frieda''s mind.


    Was the artillery officer right? No matter how fiercely we fight, no matter how many lives we sacrifice, will this cold, deep ocean become our grave? Is this the end for the ship''s crew before we can fire our cannons once more?


    Deeper questions surfaced in what she believed were her final moments.


    Why am I giving my life for another country thousands of kilometers from my homeland? Why am I fighting in this war in the first place? Did Wilhelm, my "father", send me here to die, or did he genuinely believe I could make a difference? Did he ever truly care for me, or was I simply a project, a protégé to mold in his image?


    She didn''t bother finding answers to these questions. There wasn''t much time left anyway. She spent her final seconds watching the countless bombs plummeting toward her in the cold, cloudy sky.


    And then the inevitable end came.


    Everything was endless darkness and scary yet relaxing silence. Frieda wondered if death was normally this peaceful. All the thoughts in her brain were suddenly silenced. But her tranquility was disturbed by a metallic DING sound, as if something had struck hard against metal. The sound was out of place in this void, too physical, too real.


    Frieda''s eyes flew open in complete bewilderment, her heart pounding in her chest.


    "I am... alive...? But... how?"


    Countless thoughts raced through her mind, but they were nothing more than a buzzing in her brain, incoherent and fragmented. She wasn''t able to understand a single thing happening right now.


    Last thing I remember, I was watching bombs fall toward us. There should be nothing left, not of the ship, not of my crew, and certainly not of me.


    She looked around, trying to orient herself. A dimly lit gas lamp was barely illuminating the room, as if someone had been waiting for her to wake up. Looking around, she realized she was in one of the small bedrooms inside the ship, an officer''s quarters, judging by the furnishings. There was nothing but a bed, clothes neatly folded on a chair, a few cabinets, and a necklace with a smiley face on it that was hanging on the wall with a nail. For some reason it felt like the necklace was trying to send her a message. The room showed no sign of damage, no evidence of the devastating attack she had witnessed.


    I still can''t fully grasp what happened, but one thing is certain—I’m alive. And if I survived, then my crew might have as well. Perhaps they somehow escaped the worst of the bombing.


    With renewed hope, Frieda quickly got up, ignoring the dizziness and nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.


    "TAKEO! YAMAYA! ANYONE! ANSWER ME!" she called out, her voice echoing in the empty corridors.


    She grabbed the faintly glowing gas lamp and began wandering through the ship''s deserted, cold, dark corridors.


    The Yamato had always been filled with sound, the hum of engines, the footsteps of the crew, the constant communication between stations. Now there was nothing. There wasn''t a single sign of life. No bodies, no blood, no evidence of the battle that had raged just moments—or was it hours? or days?—ago.


    Frieda struggled to make sense of it all.


    Where could the entire crew have gone? Am I the only survivor? If so, why was I in one of the ship’s cabins? Who put me there? And how long was I unconscious? No matter how hard I try, I can’t find a logical answer to any of it.


    Ugh. My head hurts.


    She wanted to find someone. No, she had to. She traversed all the corridors, pondering the possibilities in her mind.


    Perhaps there was an evacuation? But we were in the middle of the Pacific, far from any land. And why would they leave me behind?


    At the end of these seemingly endless passages, she finally saw a light, daylight. She quickly walked toward its source, her pace increasing with each step. As soon as she stepped outside onto the deck, her hands reflexively moved to shield her eyes from the sun.


    There was sunlight... It had been so long since she had seen the blue texture of the sky or felt the warmth of the sun on her skin. The days before the final battle had been nothing but gray skies and rain, as if the heavens themselves had been mourning in anticipation of the bloodshed to come. She had even thought these were just figments of her imagination, beautiful memories from a life before war that could never be recaptured.


    Or is this the afterlife? Has the darkness been merely a transition to this place of light and silence? I''m not a particularly religious woman—Wilhelm emphasized pragmatism over faith—but if this is the afterlife, it''s nothing like what I was taught.


    She looked down at her uniform, noting the dried blood and tears in the fabric.


    Surely the afterlife would have provided better attire.


    Chuckling to herself with a small, confused smile, she turned her gaze to the vast forest and endless blue sky above and said:


    "Hell can''t be this beautiful."