“Autumn is almost here…”

The Emperor of Gephra gazed out at the peak of summer, but his thoughts were already on the bleakness of fall. His mindset had begun to shift.

Since the latter part of the world war, Gephra had been in a difficult position. Military spending accounted for more than half of national income, yet the war had brought little tangible gain.

The advancement of military technology turned localized wars into global ones. How to wage war, profit from it, and turn it into strategic advantage—these were still unfamiliar concepts to many.

Moreover, the war hadn’t ended with a clear victory. It had stopped because no one could continue fighting—someone gave in first. At the negotiation table, pushing too hard risked provoking the defeated side to flip the table and resume fighting.

At worst, they could abandon their coastal cities and fortify inland defenses. “Go ahead and try landing, Gephrans. See how far you get.”

Try it—and you die.

Everyone knew Gephra didn’t have a land army worth mentioning. The Allies wouldn’t sacrifice their own military strength for Gephra’s interests.

They couldn’t invade other nations’ territory, couldn’t capture cities. At best, the so-called invincible navy could shell a few coastal targets. But beyond increasing their own losses, there wasn’t much they could do.

So even though the final peace talks were tense, everyone treaded carefully, compromising. Gaining control of Amellia was already more than expected.

From that point on, the emperor’s mindset subtly changed.

He was like a thug hiding behind a mask, armed and lurking under a flickering streetlamp at 2 a.m., pushing a girl into an alley. But just as he found the door—he realized something was wrong with himself.

He could only sigh: “There’s a door, but it’s useless.”

If not for the later naval battle with the Federation, that change in mindset wouldn’t have deepened. But that loss cost Gephra the only card it had left. It wasn’t just the emperor—Gephra’s entire upper echelon began to shift mentally.

Aggressors fear being invaded the most. They had to change the status quo.

“This time… will we succeed?” The emperor turned his gaze from the hall to the face of the Navy Minister.

The minister gave a composed nod. “Of course, Your Majesty. I guarantee it.”

The emperor’s face remained expressionless. “It better happen. Otherwise, someone’s going to pay the price.”

The Navy Minister’s brow furrowed. He knew the emperor was referring to him. The pressure across the empire was mounting—they needed an outlet.

The public, the nobility, even the ministers and royals—everyone harbored resentment. Resentment from defeat, from the lack of spoils, from the shift in national priorities.

Whoever stumbled now would become the scapegoat for the entire nation’s frustration. The state and the emperor couldn’t be blamed. People needed someone to vent their anger on.

If this plan failed, the emperor and nobility would have to offer an explanation to the nation—an explanation that might well be the dismissal of the Navy Minister.

The others in the room stayed silent, turning their focus back to the massive television screen showing footage of the joint military exercises.

Ever since the recent shift in defensive formations by the Gephran and Federation fleets—as if by mutual understanding—tensions had been rising. The joint drills now felt less like practice, more like prelude to war.

Still, everyone kept watching, hoping to glean useful insights from the details.

In joint exercises involving ground support coordination, Gephra consistently ranked at the bottom. That same day, the emperor directly demanded the resignation of the Army Minister—a symbolic act of dissatisfaction, not an official order.

The next phase for Gephra included not only upgrading its arsenal but also a ruthless overhaul of its ground forces.

They needed an army capable of blasting open enemy territory with artillery, penetrating deep to loot wealth, and seizing strategic initiative—not a bunch of welfare leeches begging for compensation.

To buy more time and prevent the international situation from spiraling out of control, the emperor had once received a strategic plan titled “The Race” on his desk. Now, the time had come to implement it.

After several rounds of joint drills, the participating nations had a better understanding of each other’s capabilities. What followed was the final showdown.

The two camps would face off in separate sea zones against a similar number of target ships. Whoever sank them the fastest would win the exercise.

Most importantly—submarines were allowed to participate.

Nearly every country had deployed submarines. In today’s military climate, submarines were seen as strategic assets.

Without effective countermeasures, submarines were virtually untouchable and could inflict lethal damage on major ships.

Worse, they were relatively cheap to build and quicker to produce. With the aid of towboats, they could submerge only upon reaching the combat zone, making them surprisingly efficient over long distances.

Even if their submarines didn’t match the Federation’s in specs, countries still brought them out—leaky, underpowered, or not. Didn’t matter.

Performance aside, the message was clear: We have them. Don’t mess with us.

That stance alone served as a protective charm—no one would dare attempt a surface invasion.

Given that the war between Gephra and the Federation had been submarine-led, this final showdown was essentially a global display of submarine strength.

As the signal for total assault was given, submarines were towed to their designated zones and began to dive. The surface quickly emptied—nothing could be seen.

From the decks of warships to distant observation vessels, the surface light refracted in a way that made spotting any submarines impossible.

Everyone watching, whether military or civilian, felt a chill run down their spine.

Ghosts of the Sea—that’s what people called these new submarines after the Federation’s victorious debut.

Once submerged, they were like phantoms. You knew they were there, but you couldn’t detect them.

Until they got close—and fired a torpedo that blew you sky-high.

No counter.

Suddenly, a few fast-rising observation balloons shot up from Gephra’s destroyers. Military observers immediately noticed and began photographing and speculating about their purpose.

Then the Federation’s balloons followed suit. No one understood what was going on.

The Gephran emperor was already sweating. His fists clenched tight, fingernails digging into his palms, blood seeping out unnoticed.

All his focus—his entire attention—was locked on the television screen.

He wasn’t alone. The Navy Minister. The Defense Minister. Even the Prime Minister. Everyone held their breath.

This was it—their one chance to reverse Gephra’s decline.

At the same time, in Amellia joint command center, the Federal Commander-in-Chief was also watching the screen, looking completely relaxed.

Although the Federation hadn’t performed the best in every category, it had still secured the top overall position, with Gephra trailing just behind.

The Federation wasn’t outstanding in every single event—aside from landing operations, where it ranked first, it often placed third or fourth in most of the other events and sub-categories.

But its strength lay in consistency. With no glaring weaknesses, its overall performance placed it at the top.

In contrast, Gephrans performed exceptionally well in many events. They had the world’s most sought-after sailors, yet consistently ranked last in combined land-sea operations.

Moreover, the only injury incident during the joint exercise also happened to Gephra’s army—during their beach landing, dozens of soldiers got hurt tripping or twisting ankles while running with gear across sand. One even sustained a serious injury trying to leap over a trench.

At that moment, the Gephran Emperor’s blood pressure spiked, his face turned completely red. If the palace doctors hadn’t intervened in time, the princes might’ve started singing funeral hymns.

The army’s clumsiness and incompetence dragged Gephra’s military score down significantly. Had it not been for their excellence in other areas, Gephra might have dropped out of the top three entirely.

The Federal Commander-in-Chief didn’t believe Gephra could make a comeback. Everyone knew the Federation had the best submarine and torpedo technology. The newer contenders simply couldn’t match the Federation’s specs anytime soon.

Despite the specs and performance charts other nations released, everyone knew most of those numbers were fake—just like the Federation’s own official data, which was hardly trustworthy.

“Can we see any of Gephra’s submarines?” the Commander asked casually, chewing on a toothpick, fully confident.

“…Sorry, Commander, we haven’t detected them yet. Their launch point is too far from us…”

“No problem. They’re not going to force us to push harder,” the Commander replied, settling comfortably into a chair. “All we need to do is wait—”

But his composure didn’t last long.

“What the hell is that?!”