Record of Lorelei: Chapter 1

This novel contains many wartime terms and references real-life locations and historical events. I've included links where I felt they were relevant to provide additional context.

さん (san): This is a general, respectful suffix used to address or refer to someone. It's similar to "Mr.," "Mrs.," or "Ms." in English. It's commonly used for people of all ages and social statuses in both formal and informal contexts.

Content warning: This novel contains descriptions of explicit sexual content. I will not be adding a trigger warning to each chapter with graphic content, so please consider this a general warning.

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The news about his friend reached Mikami on a day eighteen years after the war had ended.

It was a weary summer day, and Mikami clearly remembered how piercingly loud the telephone’s ring had sounded amid the droning cicada chorus. A vague sense of urgency stirred within him even before he knew anything. Walking across the polished black floorboards, he picked up the receiver of the telephone in the entryway.

From the dripping green treetops outside, silver sunlight streamed into the garden. The dimly lit entryway was a step lower than the rest of the house, a dirt-floored space filled with a refreshing coolness.

In front of the black rotary phone, a red goldfish in its bowl slowly swirled its tail as it turned.

“Is this the residence of Tetsuo Mikami-san?”

The voice on the other end cut through the symphony of cicadas. Startled, Mikami almost said the name out loud. There was no need for introductions—the voice was too similar to his friend’s.

“I’m sorry to call you out of the blue. My name is Heisuke Kido. I am the eldest son of the late Katsuhira Kido, who was greatly indebted to you during the war.”

The call was from his friend’s son, and with it came the news of his friend’s passing.

Katsuhira Kido had died of an illness two months earlier. His son said he had something left behind by his father that he needed to deliver.

Mikami, unable to think of anything it might be, responded that he would decline if it was something valuable. After all, he and Kido had parted ways in Rabaul before boarding the repatriation ship, and they had not contacted each other once in the postwar years.

He had often heard of Kido’s success as a company executive, but Mikami himself had not reached out. His family home had been burned down in the air raids, making it impossible to establish contact on his end. Even so, he had refrained. During the war, it was customary for those of lower rank not to contact their superiors. What if Kido thought poorly of their time in Rabaul? Mikami had wondered. Some are proud of their wartime experiences, some are ashamed, and many say nothing at all. Experiences differ; war is too cruel to allow for a simple right or wrong.

Postwar life had not been kind to former soldiers. Mikami had heard that many in the air force, due to the unique nature of their duties, struggled to adapt to society after the war. Mikami himself had been fortunate to find a job, but he had not risen in rank, instead leading an unremarkable life. He had also worried that if he contacted Kido, it might be misinterpreted as a request for financial support. In any case, the lack of contact was Mikami’s fault. I am in no position to accept mementos now, he thought.

Kido’s son, Heisuke, as he introduced himself, spoke in a soft, measured tone, as if reciting something prepared beforehand. “It’s just a letter,” he said.

“My father instructed me to ensure this letter reached you, Tetsuo Mikami-san. It was his dying wish. I know it is a great imposition, but I would be most grateful if you could at least consider accepting it.”

Faced with such words, there was no way to refuse. Mikami agreed to meet Kido’s son, arranging for him to visit in three days.

The young man who stood at Mikami’s doorstep bowed respectfully.

“Nice to meet you. My name is Heisuke Kido. I am the eldest son of the late Katsuhira Kido.”

He was dressed in a business suit, carrying a leather bag. He had a polished appearance and seemed sophisticated. After graduating from university, Heisuke had started working directly under his father, making it clear he was on the path of an elite. His slightly wavy hair was neatly parted in a classic 7:3 ratio, and the back of his neck was cleanly trimmed, reminiscent of a military officer. His face had a gentle quality, with strikingly large eyes and somewhat thick eyebrows.

“You’ve grown into such an admirable young man. You resemble your father quite a bit,” Mikami said.

Standing face to face with Heisuke, it felt to Mikami as though a young Katsuhira Kido had appeared before him. Reflexively, Mikami glanced down at his own hands. They weren’t wrinkled enough to call them old, but they bore the marks of time—spots and faded youth. A man of forty-three who had returned from the tropics. Back when he had spent time with Katsuhira, Mikami had been Heisuke’s age.

It’s as though only I have grown older, he thought, a strange sense of displacement overtaking him. But upon closer inspection, he noticed subtle differences in Heisuke’s facial features that set him apart from Katsuhira.

Mikami bowed his head once again, quietly and solemnly.

"My deepest condolences for your loss. During the war, Kido-san was a great help to me, and I regret being so remiss in maintaining contact until the very end."

The phone call had informed Mikami that Katsuhira Kido had passed away in June, succumbing to a liver disease he had been battling for years despite receiving treatment.

"Not at all. I must apologize for contacting you so abruptly. It was my father's sudden final request, and I reached out without fully understanding the details myself," Heisuke replied.

"I see. You must have gone to considerable trouble tracking me down. I deliberately avoided contacting anyone after the war."

Mikami hadn’t exactly been hiding, but he had distanced himself from wartime acquaintances. He never attended veterans' reunions, even after they were socially acceptable, and following his second move, he stopped receiving New Year’s cards altogether.

Heisuke offered a faint, good-natured smile. "I knew you worked at an automobile company, so it wasn’t too difficult. The only trouble was that when I abruptly asked for your address over the phone, the staff were understandably suspicious and hesitant to give it to me."

His boldness and adeptness at smoothing things over reminded Mikami of Katsuhira. Although Mikami hadn’t explicitly instructed anyone to withhold his contact information, it seemed one of the clerks had ultimately given Heisuke his phone number.

"Please, come in. It’s not much, but it’s what I have as a bachelor," Mikami said, inviting Heisuke inside.

His first home had been too small. The next one, too large and burdensome to maintain. This house, though secondhand, had been well cared for. It had a guest room, two additional rooms, and a kitchen in the back—comfortable and practical. Mikami was particularly fond of the Western-style room he had turned into a study.

Leading Heisuke to the tatami guest room, Mikami motioned for him to take the honored seat. The alcove featured a hanging scroll of bamboo, though its artist was unknown. With the scroll as a backdrop, Heisuke knelt and bowed, foregoing the cushion beneath him, saying, "Pardon me." The gesture reflected careful upbringing, likely thanks to Katsuhira’s influence.

When Mikami urged him again, Heisuke finally sat on the cushion. Mikami seated himself across from him. With a slight nod, Mikami placed an envelope on the low table, adorned with black and white ceremonial cords.

"I'm sorry for not attending the funeral. Please accept this small offering for the altar incense."

"No, really, there's no need. I’m only here to fulfill my father’s final wishes."

"But it’s proper. Please, I insist you accept it," Mikami pressed.

"That’s..."

When Mikami firmly insisted, Heisuke hesitated, reaching toward the envelope before pulling his hand back, looking conflicted. His shoulders visibly tensed—he must have clenched his fists under the table. Pale and stiff, Heisuke stared at the envelope.

"Before I accept it, please take a look at what I mentioned over the phone. It might change your mind. I’m prepared to take responsibility on behalf of my father—even if it means being hit. He specifically told me to apologize profusely when delivering this to you."

"Apologize?"

"Yes. My father was barely conscious in his final moments, but he repeatedly insisted that I deliver this envelope to you. He kept saying how sorry he was."

Heisuke unfolded a purple wrapping cloth on the table, revealing an old white envelope.

The envelope’s flap was unsealed, and it bore no trace of ever having been closed. Its edges were worn and rounded, the paper yellowed with age and marked with various stains. It clearly wasn’t something recent.

Mikami picked it up.

On the front, written in varying shades of ink from a fountain pen, was "Tetsuo Mikami-sama." Flipping it over, he saw "Katsuhira Kido" written in the same ink, alongside an address in Tokyo’s Meguro ward scrawled in what appeared to be black ballpoint pen.

The envelope seemed to carry a weight of anguish. Yet no matter how hard Mikami searched his memories, he couldn’t recall a single thing for which Katsuhira would need to apologize.

Kido had been the communications officer at Rabaul Base. He was five years Mikami’s senior and had shown kindness to Mikami, then a maintenance crew member for the flight team. Kido had looked out for him, treating him warmly. As Mikami considered what Kido might feel the need to apologize for, only a couple of trivial incidents came to mind:

Was it the time he insisted on “just one more game” of Go, keeping me up until almost dawn despite a flight at first light, nearly getting me called out by the maintenance chief? Or perhaps the time he complained so much about being hungry that I sneaked out to fish, only for me to be the one caught and beaten with a stick as thick as a pillar? Surely he isn’t apologizing for something like that now.

From Heisuke’s tense demeanor—he looked as if he were holding his breath—it was clear he already knew the letter’s contents.

Mikami deliberately glanced at the envelope in his hands with feigned indifference. Whatever the message contained, he intended to keep it to himself. His only aim was to soothe Heisuke.

“I can’t imagine what this is about...” Mikami said, pretending ignorance even as his mind speculated about Kido’s possible apology. Was it over some tobacco he shortchanged me? Did he put me on the wrong ship back home?

“Whatever it may be, it’s all water under the bridge now.”

Kido, as part of the communications unit, had little occasion to interact with Mikami, a maintenance officer, in their day-to-day wartime lives. Mikami had faced his own struggles after the war but had eventually made it back to Japan safely. He bore no grudges, nor did he blame anyone for his current solitary lifestyle—it was a choice he had made for his own reasons, unrelated to Kido.

The Kido Mikami remembered was a mischievous man, full of childish humor despite being a captain. Mikami couldn’t help but wonder what new trick Kido had in store for him now as he pulled out the letter from the envelope. The paper inside was older than the envelope itself, made of coarse material, not even mouse-gray in color, with prominent brown fibers embedded throughout its thickness.

The moment his fingers brushed it, Mikami felt a searing jolt, as if the paper had burned him. He inhaled sharply in surprise.

I know this paper.

Near the end of the war, when resources at Rabaul had run critically low, there was nothing resembling proper paper left. They had painstakingly crafted sheets from tree bark, shredded cloth, and seaweed, laboring to keep the smoke minimal to avoid drawing air raids. Mikami’s flight team had been issued some of that makeshift paper, using it to write, erase, and reuse until it tore or wore away.

Mikami’s heart began to race. A wave surged within him, an overpowering rush like the sound of distant tides. Time itself seemed to crash over him, rushing forward in relentless waves.

Taking a shaky breath, Mikami unfolded the letter with trembling fingers. The dry paper crackled audibly as it opened.

In the center were six large katakana characters, written with a silver pencil in wild, slanted strokes. To the right, a neat script noted the date and time. In the lower-left corner was a name.

Mikami was stunned.

This must be what they mean by being struck dumb.

It felt as though he had been hit over the head with a club, leaving him unable to think or even breathe. The three lines were brief, easily read in a moment, yet they seemed to stretch into eternity as his eyes darted over them again and again. His gaze remained fixed on the worn paper, his mouth slightly open, and his hands trembling.

He would never forget the date.

So this was the moment, he thought.

He had imagined it countless times. He had waited for it endlessly.

Back then, he hadn’t been able to do anything. Slowly, he stroked the rough paper with his fingertips, as though searching for warmth, as if touching him. Over and over, he caressed it, tracing it gently as if to imprint its essence onto his own.

A sob rose from deep within his chest, his breathing mixing with an animalistic groan. His entire being became a conduit for grief, and a cry spilled uncontrollably from his lips.

He forgot himself, his surroundings, everything—save for the letter. He ran his fingers across the paper, tears dripping onto its surface, darkening the fibers as they soaked in.

He was crying not for the man he was now but for the man he had been then.

Tetsuo Mikami, the twenty-four-year-old Ensign and aircraft mechanic.

Back then, he had been at Rabaul.

He had gazed at the azure skies where planes soared, yearning for the songs of their engines that echoed through the narrow gaps in the clouds.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

A sudden sensation of falling jolted Tetsuo Mikami awake.

The spacious cabin of the Type 1 Land-Based Attack Aircraft reverberated with the roaring sound of flight. The deafening engine noise filled the air, but Mikami didn’t find it bothersome. In fact, it was oddly comforting—perhaps a professional habit. With the plane gently rising and falling in steady rhythm, rocked by the engine's lullaby, it was impossible not to doze off.

Ahead of him, two pilots sat side by side behind the windshield, deep in conversation. Across from Mikami, a senior officer was fast asleep, his head tilted at an awkward angle. The officer’s adjutant beside him had also succumbed to the rocking plane, nodding off. Only the reconnaissance officer appeared busy, scanning various windows with his binoculars.

The engine, Kasei—the product of Mikami’s last maintenance effort at Atsugi Base—was running smoothly, its steady hum strong and unwavering. It was a long-distance flight, and with the oil fully circulated by now, the engine was at peak performance. The rudders handled well, and none of the instruments indicated trouble. With everything in perfect order, Mikami, the onboard maintenance officer, had little to do but watch the slumbering faces of the officers opposite him and inevitably let himself nod off as well.

He glanced out the broad windscreen of the Type 1 and looked up at the expanse of sky overhead.

The blue is growing deeper, he thought.

It had been about seven hours since they had departed Atsugi Base. By now, they were likely over Guam. The day’s weather was clear, and since breaking through the clouds, the view out the windows had been a constant panorama of blue, gradually deepening in hue. Heading south, the change in the color of the sky was a palpable reminder of their course.

Today, the seven-seat Land-Based Attack Aircraft was functioning mostly as a transport. Normally, its crew would consist of a primary and secondary pilot, two reconnaissance officers, two communications officers, and one maintenance officer. However, today’s configuration included two pilots, one reconnaissance officer, one communications officer, Mikami as the maintenance officer, and two passengers—a major and his adjutant—bound for the Truk Islands. The bomb bay held no explosives but was instead packed with supplies and gifts.

The rest of Mikami’s maintenance team had already deployed ahead to Rabaul, leaving Mikami behind in Japan. Now he was accompanying this flight as an onboard maintenance officer to switch places with a mechanic stationed at Truk. After the exchange, Mikami would transfer to a destroyer and head to Rabaul to rejoin his unit.

“You’ve worked hard enough to deserve a bit of a break. Enjoy yourself at Truk,” his maintenance chief had said enviously, clapping Mikami on the back.

The Truk Islands were a massive atoll system and a major strategic stronghold for the Imperial Japanese Navy. Protected from the open ocean by a natural barrier of coral reefs, it served as the main anchorage for the navy’s southern forces. Battleships such as the Yamato and Nagato often docked there. On Tonoas Island, which the Japanese referred to as Natsushima, an airfield had been built, and a Japanese town had flourished. Tales of abundance and decadence circulated, with rumors that life at Truk was more luxurious than in Japan. Critics derisively called it the “Island of Decadence,” accusing it of growing rich without lifting a finger, merely feeding off the supplies sent from Japan while Rabaul bore the brunt of the fighting at the front lines.

Since the Marco Polo Bridge Incident that had sparked the Greater East Asia War, the Japanese military had surged southward with unstoppable momentum, starting with the attack on Pearl Harbor. The Philippines, Manila, Davao, Palau, Saipan, Truk—all had fallen in quick succession. Rabaul, their southernmost forward base, was home to the elite naval aviation forces revered back in Japan as the flower of the air corps. Only the finest pilots of the Imperial Navy Air Force gathered there, and the skies above the base were crowded with aircraft.

North of Rabaul was considered Japan’s dominion. No enemy plane, whether American or British, dared challenge the skies patrolled by the elite naval aviation corps. Until nearing New Britain Island, flights through this airspace were practically scenic tours, like a lord’s procession in his palanquin.

Straightening his posture from his slightly slouched position, Mikami glanced out the window and caught sight of the ocean below. The deep blue expanse, like a sheet of iron, was marked by a single threadlike wake trailing behind a lone ship. Without escort, the solitary vessel seemed to drift leisurely across the waves—a testament to the region’s security. Mikami exhaled slowly, unclasped the pocket watch hanging from his neck, and checked the time. Forty-five minutes to arrival.

The comforting hum of the engine and the plane’s gentle movements through the waves of clouds soon had drowsiness overtaking him once more.

Occasionally skimming turbulent air currents, the aircraft pressed forward with strength, grinding through resistance like an icebreaker. The propeller and wings pulverized the thin layers of disturbance as the land-based attack aircraft surged ahead. The plane floated upward momentarily, then descended gently, like an elevator in motion. Was this how my mother’s arms felt? Mikami mused. The soothing sensation reminded him of being cradled, though it was a memory long faded—twenty-four years had passed since those days, too far removed to recall clearly.

As Mikami closed his eyes, counting the silent intervals between breaths, he thought he heard the soft transition of his own breathing turning into light snores. It was then that a strange sound pierced the air.

Piiiii—iii…

It sounded like a bird’s call.

Three thousand meters (9842 feet) above the ground, no bird could possibly be flying at such an altitude. Am I hearing things? he wondered, but there it was again.

Piiiii—iii—!

The tone was pure and hauntingly beautiful, unlike anything even a skylark could produce. Blinking groggily, Mikami opened his eyes and glanced around the cabin, but no one else seemed to react. Just as he was beginning to doubt his senses, a sudden, violent crackling noise erupted, jolting him awake with a start.

“Enemy attack! Enemy attack!” one of the pilots shouted. The deafening roar of machine guns followed, rattling through the aircraft like an unending storm of iron and fire. Somehow, enemy planes had infiltrated the airspace far north of the Truk Islands. From the rapid succession of gunfire, it was clear they weren’t dealing with just one attacker.

“What are you doing, reconnaissance officer?!” the copilot bellowed. The reconnaissance officer fumbled with his binoculars, which had slipped beneath his seat—clearly, he’d been dozing off moments before. Meanwhile, the accompanying captain scrambled to the rear gunner’s station, his movements tense. The cabin filled with the charged hum of adrenaline, a current of tension coursing through everyone present. Mikami instinctively checked the toolbox stowed near his feet.

The pilot pitched the nose of the aircraft upward in an attempt to climb and outrun the attackers, banking on sheer engine power. But their enemies were nimble fighters, built for speed. Without an escort, the lumbering land-based bomber had little chance of evading pursuit.

“It’s a reconnaissance plane! Don’t let it escape alive!” the major roared, adjusting his military cap with trembling hands. At his command, the pilot tilted the aircraft sharply, angling it toward the enemies below. From this position, any return fire would require slanted shots—hardly ideal for accuracy.

A staccato burst of machine-gun fire erupted as the captain manning the 20mm cannon opened fire. In mere seconds, one of the pursuing enemy planes trailing them burst into white smoke, spiraling toward the sea below. Mikami stared in stunned disbelief. Did we really hit it from such an angle? he wondered. But before he could process the thought, the reconnaissance officer’s shout broke through.

“Two more enemy planes!”

Hearing the panic in the officer’s voice, Mikami felt a sinking realization take hold. This might be it. With no clouds to hide them in the clear blue sky, a lumbering bomber stood no chance against agile enemy fighters. Should he start reciting prayers? Reach for a parachute? Prepare to swim? His mind raced with options, yet he couldn’t bring himself to choose any.

And then, once again, the bird’s cry pierced the air.

Piiiii—iii—! Iiiiii—!

This time, it was closer—startlingly close. The next instant, an enemy fighter bearing down on their right flank suddenly burst into flames. Its descent was rapid, plummeting toward the ocean like a stone. Did the machine guns hit it? Mikami thought, but the angle seemed impossible. Perhaps a mechanical failure in its engine?

The bird’s cry sang out once more.

“Lorelei! That’s Lorelei!” the major shouted, nearly springing to his feet in agitation. Mikami frowned. What nonsense is this man spouting? Lorelei was a character from folklore—a siren or water spirit said to lure sailors to their doom with her enchanting voice. Surely the stress of the attack had driven him mad.

The mournful, piercing bird cry rang out again, imbued with an eerie yet undeniable grace. As the haunting sound faded, the staccato thunder of machine guns followed, accompanied by an explosion beneath their aircraft. Mikami pressed his face to the window and caught sight of another enemy fighter spiraling toward the sea. Beneath their plane, a gleaming aircraft marked with the red sun insignia came into view.

“A Zero fighter!” Mikami exclaimed aloud, his relief evident. Judging by the markings, it seemed to be a carrier-based fighter. What’s a Zero doing all the way out here? And what was that sound?

The Zero ascended with an effortless grace, fluttering like a leaf caught in the wind as it pulled alongside their bomber. From Mikami’s position, he could see the pilot in the cockpit but couldn’t make out his face. The pilot exchanged hand signals with their own crew, instructing them to change course.

Are there more enemy planes nearby? Mikami wondered as a fresh wave of tension settled over the cabin.

"Hey, Mikami!"

The reconnaissance officer shoved the binoculars into his hands. Before Mikami could properly grasp them, the Zero fighter had already veered off into the distance. As he raised the binoculars to his eyes, a ground-shaking explosion roared across the air.

First enemy planes, now thunderclouds? He aimed the binoculars at the horizon, but the overlapping boom, boom… BOOM suggested otherwise. It sounded like heavy artillery fire—somewhere, a battle had begun.

"No aircraft in sight! No ships in sight!"

The reconnaissance officer barked the report, and Mikami, fumbling with the unfamiliar duty, parroted back the words, “No aircraft in sight! No ships in sight!” despite the continuous roar of distant bombardment. Neither the sky nor the sea revealed a single clue.

The radio operator worked feverishly to transmit and receive signals, but his silence suggested no useful information had come through.

“There—there it is!” The reconnaissance officer suddenly shouted.

“Engagement south-southeast! Identification unknown! Fleet size unknown!”

Pressing the binoculars firmly to his eyes, so hard they nearly sank into their sockets, Mikami peered in the indicated direction. The reconnaissance binoculars were highly sensitive, their field of view shifting dramatically with even the slightest movement, making his vision swim. Searching clumsily, his gaze caught a sudden puff of white against the blue sky, like a tuft of cotton bursting into view.

One, two, then countless more appeared, expanding in numbers until the sky was peppered with the grayish plumes. Not clouds—this was the smoke of anti-aircraft fire. The delayed echoes of thunderous booms confirmed it. There had to be aircraft in that vicinity, though Mikami couldn’t discern which side was which.

“Radio communication is blocked!” the operator announced. The battlefield was dangerously close now. By a cruel twist of fate, the unarmed land-based bomber had stumbled into the heart of the conflict.

“We’re retreating!” came the voice from the cockpit. The only choice was to flee at full throttle from the area before they were caught in the crossfire.

Will we make it in time? Mikami wondered. Which way should we run? Does the reconnaissance officer even know where we’re going?

Squinting at the sky, he strained to pick out shapes. He couldn’t see any ships, but the black columns of smoke rising against the blue sky were unmistakably closer than before. The artillery blasts also sounded louder—ominously near.

“Confirm the course!” Mikami shouted, twisting around to address the cockpit. Is this even the right way to escape?

Just then, the ominous drone of another aircraft’s engine reached his ears—a plane that wasn’t theirs. A fleeting shadow passed over the canopy, and then a light gray aircraft came barreling into view. The Zero fighter.

Through the canopy, Mikami caught a glimpse of the pilot making a sharp hand gesture, pointing in the opposite direction of their current heading. Though the sound of the engines drowned out everything, Mikami almost felt as if he could hear the pilot shouting, What the hell are you doing here?

The Zero pilot fired a burst of machine-gun rounds ahead, and as Mikami clung to the window to look below, he saw shadows on the ocean’s surface—several ships, faintly visible like chunks of charcoal drifting on the waves. Despite the low clouds obscuring the details, it was clear they had inadvertently wandered dangerously close to the enemy fleet.

Cold sweat poured out of every pore on Mikami’s body, his skin clammy with the realization of just how close they were.

Boom!

A shell detonated mere meters away, shaking the bomber violently. Mikami nearly toppled backward but clung desperately to his seat for stability. Smoke from the blast grazed the wingtip as the bomber hastily veered away, altering its course.

The Zero tilted its wings sharply, as if acknowledging their retreat, before diving boldly into the fray. Its machine guns flared, and it cut through the enemy fleet’s airspace with reckless precision.

The Zero tilted almost vertically, dropping at a terrifying angle that made Mikami’s stomach churn just to watch. That’s the southern elite—the Sea Hawks—the vanguard of the front line, he thought in awe.

Though he spent most of his days as a mechanic working beside aircrafts, Mikami rarely had the chance to see them in action, let alone this close. Now, he watched, transfixed, as the Zero fighter—sleek and deadly—darted through the sky, rising effortlessly before plunging down to strike at the enemy ships below.

Through the binoculars, Mikami tracked the Zero, his gaze glued to the aircraft as it soared with birdlike grace, rising, diving, and hunting its prey with lethal precision. The closer he focused, the more it seemed that the plane was the very embodiment of a Sea Hawk.

Then, the sound came again.

Piiiii—iii—!

That strange cry.

It was coming from the Zero.

What is that noise? Mikami strained every nerve in his body, his senses fully attuned, as he continued to follow the Zero with rapt attention.

The Zero fighter unleashed a torrent of machine-gun fire onto the enemy cruiser below, then climbed sharply back to a high altitude. The battle seemed decisively in favor of the Japanese forces. Several enemy planes were being relentlessly pursued by the Zero bearing the Hinomaru insignia, while columns of water erupted where torpedoes struck their marks. Smoke billowed from the cruiser, and through it, red and black flames flickered ominously from behind the bridge.

Once again, the Zero tilted its wings and began a steep dive.

Piiiii—iii—… piiiii—iii—…

The sound rang out as the plane banked.

Is that noise caused by the tilt of the plane? Mikami’s instincts as a mechanic stirred uneasily. A sound like that coming from a fighter plane? It was unheard of. Perhaps it was a mechanical issue—something malfunctioning mid-flight. If so, it’s practically a beacon to the enemy, giving away its position!

Granted, fighter pilots were often known for their reckless audacity, but if the pilot hadn’t noticed the problem, someone needed to inform him. But how would they know? Maintenance crews rarely witness aircraft in the air. Some defects only reveal themselves in flight. Mikami squinted, straining to see any identifying marks on the Zero. If only I could tell what unit it’s from, I could report it somehow…

The eerie song echoed again, drawing Mikami’s focus back.

Piiiii—iii—

Despite the destruction of anti-aircraft guns, flying so close above an enemy ship—especially a fighter, not a bomber—was perilous. Mikami opened his mouth to shout a warning but froze as he saw something unbelievable.

Above the smoldering ship, something sparkled. Each time the Zero passed over, a glint of light flashed in the sky, like tiny bursts of brilliance.

Beside him, the reconnaissance officer, who had also been watching intently, muttered, “Lorelei has quite the appetite today.”

Mikami realized, to his disbelief, what was happening. Using its landing hook, the Zero was cutting through the wires strung across the enemy ship’s antennas and bridge. The precision was astounding, but the act itself was reckless and absurd.

“That thing’s a shark…” the officer murmured, his mouth agape.

If “glutton” was an apt description, it was a horrifyingly ferocious one. Mikami could hardly believe such ferocity in a machine born to fight.

As he watched in stunned silence, the battlefield gradually receded into the distance. The tense atmosphere lingered, and the reconnaissance officer continued scanning the skies with meticulous care. Mikami, holding his breath, joined in the vigilant search.

It must have been more than five minutes before the officer finally announced, “No enemy aircraft in sight.” The crew relaxed slightly. It seemed their sudden appearance over an active battlefield had drawn the enemy’s attention, but after the destruction wrought by the Japanese forces—especially the rampaging Zero—the Americans likely had no resources left to pursue them.

“We owe our lives to Lorelei,” the commanding officer muttered, slumping heavily into his seat with a sigh of relief.

Mikami knew exactly what he meant. It was the sound—the ethereal, haunting melody emanating from that Zero. Could it always have made that noise?

The reconnaissance officer leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Unfortunate nicknames tend to get censored. Call it ‘Demon King’ or ‘Shooting Star,’ and it’s the kind of thing the mainland newspapers glorify. But Lorelei? It’s too feminine and downright creepy—it’d never make it past the editors.”

He wasn’t wrong. Yet in the heat of battle, Mikami knew which fighter he’d prefer to avoid. A fighter plane with a cool name is one thing, but that eerie Zero—Lorelei—now that’s something terrifying.

The song it emitted was beautiful, its clear tones cutting through the azure sky with an unnerving sharpness. In the vast southern skies, it resonated with a majesty that bordered on the supernatural.

“Mikami, haven’t you heard of Lorelei before?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Mikami’s time at Atsugi Air Base had been uneventful. It was a large facility, with plenty of personnel and gossip about aircraft, but he’d never encountered rumors about a Zero with such a nickname—or one that sang an otherworldly tune.

“For whatever reason, that Zero sings. It sings while shooting down enemy planes, and while tearing apart enemy ships.”

The reconnaissance officer mimicked biting movements with his hands, grimacing as he spoke.

“They say, if you hear that sound, Lorelei will drag you under. It’s the song of a monster.”

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