Chapter 59: Sky Rider

Armored Dragon Calendar Year 418 – Claude, Age 13

—

[Claude POV]

Six drakes in formation. Six riders in uniform.

I stood at the edge of the aerial operations field, watching the unit I had authorized six months ago prepare for formal inspection. The morning sun caught their scales—reds and oranges and one striking gold that could only be Charizard—and made them gleam like living flames arranged in perfect symmetry. Everything about them said ready.

This didn’t exist a year ago. The satisfaction had edges to it.

A year ago, Arbalest was a handful of former slaves with ambitions and nothing else. Now we had intelligence networks, ground forces, maritime access, and an aerial reconnaissance unit that would make any military commander envious.

“Permission to present unit, sir?”

Ash stood before me in her rider uniform, practical leather reinforced with flame-resistant panels, goggles pushed up on her forehead, the professional bearing of someone who had grown into command. She wasn’t the uncertain trainee I had met in the early days.

She was a unit leader. My unit leader.

“Granted.”

The formality felt strange. New.

We had been informal for so long, comrades thrown together by circumstance, learning together, struggling together. But organizations needed structure.

Hierarchy served purposes beyond ego. The rituals of command created clarity where chaos might otherwise reign.

Ash turned and began the presentation.

—

“Aerial Unit One presents for inspection. Six riders. Six drakes. Three months operational. Combat ready.”

The words were ceremonial, but the pride behind them was genuine. Ash had built this from nothing, from a single chaotic drake who ate swords and set pillows on fire.

Now she commanded a unit.

“Unit statistics,” she continued. “Average patrol range: fifty miles. Average flight time: ninety minutes. Message relay capability: four minutes from observation to base notification. Scouting efficiency: one drake-pair equals ten ground scouts in area coverage.”

Something methodical processed the numbers immediately—impressive returns on the investment, variables identified for expansion, strategic advantage mapped in broad strokes.

Something combat-oriented was less interested in statistics. Fire drakes on enemy formations. Chaos. Broken lines.

Something older watched with cautious approval—good capabilities, good training. Don’t waste them. Build slowly, strike carefully.

I acknowledged each impression without committing to any of them.

“Proceed with demonstration,” I said.

—

The drakes launched in sequence.

Charizard went first, Ash’s mount, largest of the unit, scales darkened to deep crimson with maturity. Her wings caught the air with practiced efficiency, powerful strokes carrying her upward in a spiral that seemed almost casual.

The others followed in pairs—two red males, brothers from the same clutch, two females (one orange, one the striking gold I had noticed earlier), and the final drake, a male with unusual black markings that made him look like flame wrapped in shadow.

Within moments, all six were airborne, circling the field in a loose formation that tightened as they gained altitude.

“Formation One,” Ash called from Charizard’s back, her voice carrying through the clear morning air.

The drakes shifted into a diamond pattern—two leading, two flanking, two trailing. The geometry was precise, each drake maintaining exact distance from its neighbors, synchronized wing beats creating a rhythm that spoke to hours upon hours of practice.

They turned as one unit, banked left, banked right, climbed in perfect alignment.

“Formation Two.”

The diamond shifted—the lead drakes pulled ahead, the flankers spread wide, the trailing pair dropped lower. Attack configuration, a pattern designed for strafing runs, for hitting ground targets with concentrated flame while maintaining mobility.

And then they dove.

Six drakes plummeting from altitude, wings folded, wind screaming past scales, fire trailing behind them—not full combat flame, just the excess heat that drakes couldn’t fully suppress during high-speed maneuvers. They looked like falling stars, like divine judgment descending from heaven.

Pull up at the last second, synchronized. Six drakes leveling out barely twenty feet above the ground, wings snapping open, decelerating from terminal velocity to controlled flight in a transition that should have been impossible.

If that hit an enemy formation, they would break. Not from casualties, though those would be significant, but from pure psychological shock.

No ground force could maintain cohesion against that kind of assault.

“Impressive,” I said.

Understatement of the year.

—

“Formation Three!”

The scatter-and-regroup maneuver was designed for emergency situations. The drakes broke in all directions, each flying a different vector, making targeting impossible. Then, on Ash’s signal, they reversed course and reformed—not in their original positions, but in optimal combat arrangement based on their new orientations.

It took four seconds. Four seconds from complete dispersal to combat ready.

I watched with appreciation that approached awe. This wasn’t just flying, this was coordination at a level that required complete trust between rider and drake, between rider and rider, between the entire unit operating as a single organism.

Something combat-oriented pushed fierce approval—this was capability, this was power that mattered. Expand the program. Build more.

Something cooler moved through the fuel requirements. Drake flame capacity depletes rapidly in combat—three attack runs before rest and feeding. Plan accordingly.

And from something older, measured assessment. Good capability. Don’t let the flash blind you to the vulnerabilities. Drakes were large targets, and large targets died if misused.

The formation demonstration continued for another ten minutes, showcasing various combat scenarios, reconnaissance patterns, and communication protocols. By the end, I had a comprehensive understanding of what the aerial unit could, and couldn’t, accomplish.

Then Charizard broke formation to chase a bird.

—

“Charizard, NO!”

Ash’s shout carried across the field as her drake veered away from the unit, powerful wings propelling her toward a hawk that had made the mistake of flying too close to the demonstration area.

The chase lasted perhaps fifteen seconds. It ended with Charizard landing in the middle of the field, the hawk’s remains dangling from her jaws, her expression radiating pure satisfaction.

“We’re still working on discipline,” Ash said as she guided Charizard back to formation, her voice carrying the resigned tone of someone who had lived with this particular problem for months.

“Noted.”

Something combat-oriented pushed a different view—the drake follows her instincts. That’s not a flaw. Train around it.

Something more methodical disagreed. Inconsistent obedience was a tactical liability. One drake breaking formation at the wrong moment could compromise an entire operation.

Something older simply noted it. Some things can’t be fully controlled. Learn to work with that.

I kept my expression neutral as Ash completed the reorganization. No need to dwell on one lapse in an otherwise flawless demonstration.

“Continue the inspection,” I said.

—

The individual assessments took the better part of an hour.

I met each rider in turn, spoke with them about their training, observed their drakes, noted their strengths and weaknesses. The ritual was thorough but not excessive—I needed to understand the unit, not perform an interrogation.

Rider One: Ash. Strong bond with Charizard, natural leadership abilities, tactical instincts that had developed significantly over the past months. Drake slightly undisciplined (the bird incident being merely the latest example), but compensated for by exceptional combat capability. Rating: Excellent with caveats.

Rider Two: Marcus, a young man in his early twenties, former scout from the northern territories. Precision flyer—his positioning was the most accurate in the unit. Weak combat instincts, however. He would need to be paired with aggressive partners to maximize his contribution. Rating: Good, specialized.

Rider Three: Lira, a woman about Marcus’s age, former mercenary with experience in mounted combat. Her translation to aerial operations had been remarkably smooth. Combat skills were excellent, possibly the best in the unit, but her formation flying needed work. She had a tendency to break pattern when she spotted opportunities. Rating: Good, improving.

Riders Four through Six showed similar patterns, each with distinct strengths, each with areas requiring development. The unit as a whole was functional, effective, and growing more capable with each passing week.

“You’ve built something here,” I told Ash after the assessments were complete.

“We built it.” She gestured toward the other riders who were tending to their drakes at the far end of the field. “You trusted us with the resources. Maris handled the breeding program. The riders trained themselves as much as I trained them.”

“And you led the process.”

“Charizard helped.” A slight smile crossed her face.

“When she wasn’t eating things.”

“Good leadership is working with what you have.”

“Then I’m excellent at leadership. I have a lot to work with.”

I almost smiled back. Almost.

Personal connections mattered. Even for someone as focused on results as I was.

—

The tactical discussion took place in the command tent adjacent to the landing field.

Maps covered the central table, regional geography marked with patrol routes, supply lines, known threats, and areas of interest. The aerial unit’s capabilities would affect all of these calculations.

“Scouting deployment,” I began, pointing to the eastern territories. “Two-drake patrols on rotating schedule. Four-hour shifts, fifty-mile range. Primary objective is early warning. We need to know about threats before they reach our operational areas.”

Ash nodded, making notes on a smaller map she had brought with her. “Coverage gaps?”

“Night operations. Drakes don’t see well in darkness. We’ll need ground scouts to cover those hours.”

“Already coordinated with Division B. Their teams can handle night patrols in the high-priority zones.”

“Good.”

The planning continued through rapid response protocols, message relay procedures, combat support limitations, and integration with ground forces. Each topic revealed new complexities, situations where the aerial unit’s strengths would shine, situations where their weaknesses would create vulnerabilities.

“Combat support,” I said finally. “Direct engagement is not your primary role. Harassment, distraction, information gathering, yes. Stand-up fights against organized resistance, no. Your drakes are valuable and difficult to replace. I’d rather you complete a hundred successful reconnaissance missions than lose one drake in a heroic combat action.”

“Understood.” Ash’s expression suggested she agreed with this assessment. “We’ll focus on what we’re good at.”

“One drake equals ten scouts,” I summarized. “That’s the value proposition. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”

“Sir.” She saluted, the gesture now natural where it had once been awkward.

The meeting ended. Plans were set.

The aerial unit would be deployed according to the protocols we had established.

Another piece of the machine, fitting into place.

—

[Ash POV – Three Weeks Earlier]

I should have known better than to make a dramatic entrance.

The flight from the northern territories had taken two days, Charizard and I pushing hard to reach Milishion with the intelligence report that couldn’t wait for normal channels. Division A had uncovered something significant, and Claude needed to know immediately.

But when I spotted the training grounds below, when I saw figures moving through sword forms in the courtyard, when I recognized Claude’s distinctive stance even from five hundred feet up…

Well. Dramatic entrances were kind of my thing now.

“Charizard,” I said, patting her neck. “Show them what we’ve learned.”

She rumbled agreement. My drake had always understood the value of making an impression.

We dove.

Fwoom. The flame breath came at the last second, a perfect cone of fire that lit up the afternoon sky, announced our arrival with the authority of divine judgment, and absolutely did not endanger anyone on the ground because I was a professional and knew exactly what I was doing.

The figures below scattered anyway. Predictable.

Charizard pulled up at twenty feet.

Whoosh. Wings creating a downdraft that sent dust swirling across the training yard.

We circled once, giving everyone time to appreciate the spectacle, then landed in the center of the courtyard with practiced precision.

Thump.

I dismounted, pulled off my goggles, and took in the scene.

Claude stood near the equipment racks, expression unreadable. Beside him, two women I didn’t recognize, one older with silver hair and the bearing of a master swordsman, one younger with striking features and an expression that suggested she was not impressed by aerial theatrics.

“Commander,” I said, saluting with perhaps more flair than strictly necessary. “Sky Rider Ash reporting from northern operations. Priority intelligence requires immediate briefing.”

Claude’s eye twitched. “You could have used the front gate.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

The younger woman stepped forward. “This is the famous Sky Rider? The one who defeated a Saint-ranked Royal Knight?”

“That’s me.” I grinned. “Though ‘defeated’ might be overstating it. ‘Survived’ is more accurate.”

“You look younger than I expected.”

“I get that a lot.”

The older woman moved with the fluid grace of water incarnate. Her examination was thorough, clinical, and ended with a snort of dismissal.

“Your stance is sloppy,” she said. “Your drake has no discipline, and your entrance was unnecessarily dramatic.”

I blinked. “Who’s the old grandma?”

The courtyard went silent.

Claude’s expression suggested he was contemplating multiple forms of murder. The younger woman’s face went through several interesting colors.

And the older woman, the one I had just called “old grandma”, smiled.

It was not a nice smile.

“I am Reida Reia,” she said with dangerous calm. “Water God, and you, child, have just volunteered for a demonstration.”

“A demonstration of what?”

“How poorly trained riders fare against proper swordsmen.”

Oh. Oh no.

The younger woman was already moving. Her blade came from its sheath in a motion too fast to follow properly, water given steel form, flowing toward my throat with lethal intent.

I dodged. Barely.

“Isolte, perhaps we should—” Claude began.

“No interference,” Reida interrupted. “The boy needs to learn respect.”

“I’m a girl!”

“Then perhaps learn respect and how to introduce yourself properly.”

Isolte’s next strike came from an impossible angle.

Clang. I blocked with my arm guard, felt the impact rattle my bones, and started to appreciate exactly how much trouble I was in.

Water God Style. One of the three great sword styles.

And Isolte, whoever she was, had clearly trained under Reida directly.

I was so screwed.

—

The fight lasted three minutes. It felt like hours.

Isolte flowed around every defense I mounted. Her blade was everywhere, forcing me back, disrupting my balance, demonstrating the vast gulf between amateur enthusiasm and professional mastery.

I tried to use my aerial combat training. Didn’t help.

Water God Style adapted to movement, used momentum against opponents. Everything I knew about fighting from dragonback was useless on the ground.

The match ended with me flat on my back, Isolte’s blade at my throat, and my pride thoroughly demolished.

“Adequate physical conditioning,” Isolte said, not even breathing hard. “Terrible fundamentals, no formal training. You fight like a street brawler who learned to ride a dangerous animal.”

“That’s… actually pretty accurate,” I admitted.

She offered her hand. I took it, letting her pull me upright.

“Reida Reia,” I said, turning to the Water God with as much dignity as I could muster. “I apologize for my disrespect. I didn’t recognize you, and my entrance was inappropriate.”

“At least you learn quickly.” Reida’s expression softened slightly.

“Claude speaks highly of your capabilities. I wanted to see if the legend matched reality.”

“And?”

“Your drake is impressive. Your tactical instincts are sound. Your swordsmanship is abysmal.” She paused. “But you have potential, if you’re willing to train properly.”

I glanced at Claude. Who was watching with an expression that suggested he had expected exactly this outcome.

“How long are you staying in Milishion?” I asked him.

“Another two months. Training with Reida.”

“Then I guess I have time to learn how not to embarrass myself.” I looked back at Reida.

“If you’re willing to teach me.”

“Mornings,” she said. “After Claude’s sessions. We’ll see if that famous Sky Rider reputation can be backed by actual skill.”

—

[Claude POV – Present Day]

I stood on the hill overlooking the aerial operations base as evening settled over the landscape. The drakes had been fed and housed in their fire-resistant shelters. The riders had completed their debriefs and dispersed to their quarters.

The base was quiet now, the controlled chaos of the demonstration replaced by the steady rhythms of an operational facility.

From nothing to this.

A year ago, I had been a boy with knowledge and three voices in his head, struggling to survive in a world that didn’t care about his ambitions. Now I commanded an organization that spanned multiple territories.

With capabilities that would make established powers nervous.

Earned pride—the satisfaction of accomplishment, of seeing plans become reality, of watching people grow into roles that seemed impossible when they started.

Something methodical catalogued it without judgment—accomplishment genuine, pattern noted for reference, continue building.

Something combat-driven embraced it fully—strength built through will and effort. The enemy was still coming. More was still needed.

Something older offered caution. Pride and hubris were easy to confuse. Everything built could be destroyed, every strength could become weakness.

I acknowledged the warning. It was valid.

The line between pride and hubris was thin, invisible sometimes, easy to cross without realizing you had done so.

And then, unexpectedly, a flash of memory—not from the three familiar presences, but from the fourth, the echo of the alternate timeline, surfacing without warning.

A sunset over the Holy Land of Sword, the feeling of watching training end, of students and masters dispersing to evening meals and rest, the simple contentment of being part of a larger whole. The alternate Claude had known this feeling, had experienced this satisfaction of watching people grow, even if his contribution was smaller than mine.

The memory faded as quickly as it came, leaving only an impression of shared understanding. Different lives, different paths, but some experiences crossed all boundaries.

I stood in the fading light and accepted what I felt. Pride, yes. Satisfaction, certainly. But also awareness—of limitations, of risks, of the thousand ways that success could become failure if I wasn’t careful.

The drakes settled into their shelters below. The riders prepared for evening duties.

The base hummed with the quiet efficiency of an operation that worked.

One unit assessed. Many more to go.

—

Mike found me as I walked back toward the main compound.

“Inspection complete?”

“Aerial unit is operational and effective. Some areas need improvement, but overall performance exceeds expectations.”

“Good news, then.”

“Good news.”

We walked in silence for a moment. The path wound through trees that had been cleared for security purposes, creating sight lines that any attacker would have to cross under observation.

“We’re building an army,” Mike said finally.

“We’re building capability. Army is a side effect.”

“Semantic difference.”

“Important difference. Armies attack, we respond.”

“For now.”

I didn’t answer. The qualification was accurate, if uncomfortable.

Orsted was out there. The Dragon God, whose arrival would force a confrontation.

That no amount of drakes or intelligence networks or maritime access could guarantee surviving. I was building toward that moment, accumulating every advantage, developing every capability, preparing for a battle that might be impossible to win regardless of preparation.

But preparation was all I could control. So I prepared.

“Ground forces next,” I said. “Division C needs assessment before the end of the month. Then supply logistics for the northern expansion.”

“And your training?”

“Continuing. The Cloud Style is progressing.”

“Reida’s assessment?”

“Guardedly positive. She says I’m learning, which is apparently high praise.”

Mike nodded. “You’re spreading yourself thin.”

“I know.”

“That’s not sustainable.”

“I know that too.”

“And you’re doing it anyway.”

“Until I can’t. Then I’ll adjust.”

The compound came into view, buildings that had grown from temporary shelters to permanent structures, walls that marked territorial control, activity that spoke to hundreds of people working toward shared goals.

Six drakes, six riders. A start.

Ground forces, intelligence networks, maritime access, supply lines. Each piece of a larger machine, each capability adding to the whole, each day bringing me closer to facing what might be impossible.

—