Chapter 33: Higher Than The Sun - Part 3

Holland picked up the portable radio, pressing the button. "Holland calling Matthew. Can you hear me?"

No reply came through the crackling static.

The ceiling above trembled, and small chunks of stone broke loose, crashing to the floor. Holland shook his head, brushing the dust from his hair.

Whether it was because they were out of range, the ship was submerged, or enemy shells were pounding overhead—one of those reasons had severed his connection with the Washington. There would be no support from Matthew. He was on his own.

Raising the radio to his lips again, he pressed the button. "I hope you can hear me, old friend. If you get this message, take the ship to the bay by the coastal fortress on the other side of the harbor. Wait for me there. And whatever you do, don't surface."

The ceiling shook again—harder this time—and more debris rained down.

"But if I don't make it—which, of course, won't happen, because I will make it—you'll find my captain's will in my quarters, tucked inside my journal." He released the button and set the radio on the map table.

A captain's will was a tradition among sailors. It was entrusted to the first mate or someone the captain deeply trusted. Often, it named the next in line to command or held the captain's final wishes. The first mate was rarely named as the successor; the custom arose because captains and their first mates frequently died together in the Sunless Seas. Whoever survived was bound to follow the captain's will without question.

Holland found himself questioning his own decision.

His duty was to the crew of the Washington. Not the people of Kyushu. Not the people of Saipan. His only creed had always been neutrality, focusing solely on the safety of his ship and crew.

It would have been easier to let Sonia die—the spy.

It would have been easier to kill the frenzied islanders attacking Esther.

It would have been easier to slaughter every child on the dam by Geza.

So why had he chosen to risk his life?

It was because of that girl...

She had fought for strangers with all her heart. She had turned Rain—once cold and indifferent to the world—into someone who risked everything to save children on that dam.

Perhaps... she had changed him too.

No... Not entirely.

Holland's gaze lifted from the map of Kyushu, its surface marked and scored with plans and strategies. Yet no amount of strategizing could push away the ghosts of his choices.

The sound of the door opening behind him shattered his thoughts. A soldier poked his head in. "The people you requested are here, sir."

The soldier stepped aside, allowing three figures in Kyushu military uniforms to enter the room.

"Long time no see, kid! You've grown up," rumbled the first man, his voice rough but familiar.

He was well past fifty, his body still carved with muscle, his silver hair standing defiantly in a wild mohawk. His arms enveloped Holland in a crushing embrace, a grin of raw, battle-hardened joy stretching across his face.

"Still strong as ever, huh, Gatling?" Holland rasped, half-strangled in the iron grip.

"Let him go, or you'll kill him," came a teasing voice.

A woman stepped forward, breaking the embrace just in time.

"Thanks, Rose," Holland gasped, sucking in air. "You saved my life—again."

Her eyes glinted with mischief beneath a bandana of bright orange, holding back her cascade of sun-kissed dreadlocks. Though the years had passed, she seemed untouched by them.

"Your eyes are different," she observed, her voice soft yet sharp. "But some things never change—like your death wish."

Then, the last man entered, his tone a low growl of disapproval. "Does it matter if you die now or when the Saipanese land?"

His black hair fell just over his brow, and behind square-framed glasses, his sharp, crimson-tinged eyes locked on Holland with open displeasure.

"Still the same old pessimist, Yoru," Holland said with a dry chuckle. "You remind me of someone... a friend of mine. Hector."

His voice dipped with hope. Arthur... Hector... He hopes they get back to the ship in time.

Yoru's eyes narrowed. "I've seen the enemy ships from the ramparts. Three destroyers. What's your plan against that?"

"We don't need to win," Holland replied swiftly. "Our job is to buy time—to hold the line until the evacuation is complete." His voice was quick, urgent. "I'm just glad you three are still with the Kyushu Navy. Makes this a hell of a lot easier."

"How many do we have?" Yoru asked in accented English.

"Fifty fighters. Half palace guards, half local fishermen."

The room fell into a heavy silence.

"Don't tell me you're giving up already," Holland teased, his smile tight.

"This is suicide," Yoru stated coldly, arms crossed.

Rose's voice was quieter, tinged with sorrow. "Most of our forces were sent to the front lines. The Empire of Saipan called for every able body to fight the Soviets. That's why we have no fleet left to defend Kyushu when Wasaru declared independence. We can't win."

Gatling added, his voice booming as ever, "Besides, the Saipanese are only here for Genzo, aren't they? He’s their target. They want the Kyushu leadership. Just a change of ruler."

"No." Holland's voice cut through. "The King of Saipan is dead. A general seized power. That's why Wasaru allied with the Soviets and broke away. But those destroyers aren't here to capture. They're here to eradicate. They'll kill everyone on this island to ensure no heir to Saipan's throne survives."

Another silence, heavier than the last.

Holland's voice softened, but it burned with resolve. "You swore an oath to defend this island and its people. That time has come. Right now, Genzo is evacuating civilians from the other side of the island. Our job is to hold the line at the harbor and in the city. We must buy them time."

"Did you hear anything Rose said?" Yoru snapped. "We have no warships, no artillery, not even a damn machine gun! Three destroyers against fifty men! We couldn't hold them if we tried!"

Rose lowered her gaze. "It’s been nearly ten years since we met you. We're not the reckless kids we were back then. I retire next year. Yoru's getting married. Gatling's about to be a father."

Gatling added, his voice quieter for once. "Kyushu's not even your home. Genzo wouldn't ask this of you. And neither would I. You're no hero. You never played the righteous fool. So... why?"

The question lingered in the air. Heavy. Raw.

Holland felt the weight. He was asking them to gamble everything—their futures, their dreams, their lives.

He raised his eyes, meeting each of theirs. Gatling, the brute with the heart of gold. Rose, the guardian, who always fought for others. Yoru, the cynic, forever protective of his friends.

Memories of their youth burned bright in his mind.

Gatling was right. He wasn’t a hero. The Sunless World had taught him that. You can't save everyone. And saving something... means losing something else.

So why?

"You're right, Gatling," he said quietly, a weary smile on his lips. "I'm no hero. Never was, never wanted to be. You're right—I don't come from here. I don't know these people. And you're damn right that I'm asking you to risk everything."

Everything I no longer have.

His hand rested on the map, his eyes distant, staring past stone and sky, to a horizon he'd never see.

"No one wants to leave this world. Even if it’s cruel. Even if it’s dark."

But... if it were for that girl…

"You asked me why." His voice was soft but clear. "Because if no one does anything, nothing will ever change."

“Because if we don't do it… no one else will.”

The room stood still. The distant explosions above felt far away. Holland had said everything he could.

He lowered his gaze to the map, waiting for their footsteps to fade.

But they didn’t.

A shadow fell over him as Gatling stepped forward, towering above him. "So," he rumbled, his voice charged with something fierce and familiar, "You got a plan, kid?"

Holland's lips curled into a grin. "Wouldn't have called you here without one."

Rose and Yoru drew in closer, their eyes wary but intrigued.

"We don't have artillery," Holland admitted, "But this fortress was built during Nobunaga's era—designed to repel pirates with weapons of... devastating power. And some of those weapons... still remain."

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Yoru narrowed his eyes. "If there were any 'devastating weapons,' they'd be long gone, sent to the front."

Rose raised a brow. "Don't tell me you're thinking of using... muskets?"

Holland said nothing—just smiled.

It was Gatling who barked a laugh, clapping his hands with a resounding crack. "I know what you mean! You can't be serious! You want to use that?!"

Holland's grin widened. "Oh, we’re using that."

Gatling's grin matched his. "But to hit them with that, the range is too short."

"We won't fight them head-on," Holland said, pointing to a spot on the map. "We'll hold here and let them come to us. Right into the jaws."

Gatling let out a low whistle. "Now that... that's interesting."

"Holding there means no escape route," Rose warned.

"We won't need one," Holland replied. "As long as we have that, they won't break be able to break through."

Gatling, his eyes blazing with excitement, added, "If we hold there, they'll have to bring their ships in close to support their troops."

"And that," Holland finished, his voice firm, "Will put them within that's range. Once the destroyers are out of play, we shift to guerrilla warfare. We'll bleed them through the streets and slip out when we see the evacuation flares."

Rose's eyes sparkled—a flash of hope. "So... that... That's your plan? Didn't expect that at all. But... I see it."

Gatling grinned savagely. "Not just stalling. We might even hurt them more than they'd ever expect. Damn good plan, kid." He clapped Holland's back, nearly sending him over the table. "Still the same kid with the crazy plans."

"So," Holland said, his voice steady but searching, "You're in?"

Gatling's fist met his palm with a thunderous clap. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Rose smiled softly. "You said it yourself. If we don't do this... who will?"

All eyes turned to Yoru.

"Well?" Holland pressed.

Yoru growled in frustration, his face twisting. "Will someone please tell me what the hell that is?!"

…

Kiyomasa Kikyo stood at the prow of the destroyer Miyuki, her gray camouflage coat billowing in the cold winds of the Sunless Seas, her shoulder-length black hair whipping across her face. With a quick motion, she tucked a stray lock behind her glasses and folded her arms, her sharp gaze fixed on the Kyushu harbor where her troops had landed. Though her expression was calm, a storm of unease brewed beneath the surface.

The island’s defenses should have been negligible—Kyushu’s forces were tied up fighting the Soviets in the north—yet something gnawed at her instincts.

The rhythmic clang of boots on metal approached from behind. Without turning, she ordered, “Report, Lieutenant Takeda.”

“The shelling has ceased,” he replied crisply. “No return fire. No sign of defenders on the ramparts. The landing squads report no resistance, only signs of a hurried evacuation.”

Kikyo nodded but sensed hesitation behind her. “Speak your mind.”

Takeda’s voice carried concern. “With respect, you should be in Tokyo, not chasing a traitor. You are poised to become Empress—”

“Acting ruler,” she corrected, her tone sharp. “And this isn’t just about a traitor. It’s about eliminating a threat to my future—a thorn that could rally defiance against me.”

A flicker of defiance crossed Takeda’s eyes. “You don’t trust me to handle this?”

Kikyo turned, icy eyes locking with his. “Are you questioning my judgment, Lieutenant?” Despite their childhood friendship, her words cut like steel.

After a tense beat, Takeda lowered his gaze. “No, Commander.”

Her voice softened, though her mask remained intact. “Wasaru and his heir are threats I cannot leave breathing. This burden is mine to bear.”

Takeda’s brow furrowed. “You carry too much alone. Let me share it.”

Before she could answer, the crack of rifle fire split the air, followed by the staccato bursts of automatic guns. Both spun toward the source—the hill above the fortress.

Takeda’s voice was steady but curious. “Bolt-action rifles. Outdated. They won’t stop our assault troops.”

Kikyo’s eyes narrowed. “Then why aren’t they defending the fortress?” She extended a hand. “Radio.”

Takeda hesitated but obeyed, handing it over.

“Kiyomasa to assault leader. Report.”

A gruff, winded voice answered, “Sergeant Nakamura here. Third squad requested backup—enemy contact at the fish market. We’re moving in.”

Kikyo’s grip tightened. “Be cautious. It could be a trap.”

The warning came too late. Rifle volleys thundered through the radio, cutting through shouts and automatic fire. A panicked voice screamed, “They’re on the walls! Fall back!”—then, silence.

Takeda seized the radio. “Nakamura! Report!”

A different, trembling voice crackled through. “Nakamura’s dead. Third and first squads are… gone.”

Takeda’s knuckles whitened around the receiver. “What happened?”

Kikyo’s voice, cold and analytical, answered for him. “They funneled our troops into a kill zone—the fish market’s alleys, flanked by cliffs. Classic musket-line tactics: volley fire from staggered ranks, each line shooting and kneeling to reload while the next fires.”

Takeda’s face paled. “Muskets? Ancient tactics destroyed an assault unit armed with automatics?”

“It’s adaptation,” Kikyo replied. “They’re exploiting the terrain—cliffs on one side, a hill on the other. No flanking routes. A direct assault is suicide.”

Takeda, regaining his composure, asked, “Orders?”

Kikyo’s decision was swift. “Call Shirayuki. Bombard the hill and the market. The enemy has no artillery to stop us.”

Takeda relayed the command. Soon, the Shirayuki began maneuvering into the harbor, its twin cannons swiveling into position.

Then, Kikyo’s heart lurched.

Too easy. If the enemy relied on muskets, why not defend from the fortress itself?

Her eyes widened. “Takeda! Stop Shirayuki! It’s a trap!”

But the warning came with the thunder of cannon fire. Explosions ripped across Shirayuki’s hull, and black spheres streaked from the cliffside—ancient cannonballs from a hidden line of antique artillery.

Takeda’s voice cracked with disbelief. “They—they’re using black-powder cannons—against a modern destroyer?!

The only way the destroyer could target the enemy hidden behind the cliff was to enter Kyushu Harbor—a narrow, confined bay that forced the ship dangerously close to the towering rock face. It was a trap, and now they were caught.

Though the enemy batteries were hidden from view, Kikyo could picture them clearly: rows of ancient cannons, their barrels loaded with powder and iron spheres, lined along the precipice. At this range—mere meters from the jagged cliffside—each shot was execution, not battle.

So, the enemy commander had played for this move from the start. Lured them into the bay. Made their ancient weapons effective.

Point-blank.

And devastatingly precise.

Kikyo... smiled.

Impressive.

At last, a battle worthy of her.

…

The roar of triumph erupted around Holland, yet his own grin was fixed on the inferno before him. The enemy destroyer, its hull breached and ablaze, listed sharply to starboard as crew members flung themselves into the waves, scrambling for lifeboats.

“We sank that Saipanese tin can!” Gatling bellowed, his voice booming above the gun smoke curling from his field cannon.

“They’re sending another destroyer!” Yoru shouted from the cliff’s edge, his binoculars glinting. “Five hundred meters farther!”

Holland’s voice snapped through the air. “Enough celebrating! Elevate twenty degrees! Load up! We’ll send every ship they have to the bottom of Kyushu Bay!” His militia—no soldiers, only fishermen pressed into war—sprang to action, driven by the raw, intoxicating taste of victory. Fear gave way to something more potent: hope.

The enemy’s second destroyer slid into view, its turrets sweeping toward them. “Hold,” Holland ordered, tension cutting through the hush.

The enemy’s guns breached the horizon.

“Fire!”

The earth shook beneath the blast, and a volley of cannonballs screamed through the air, striking steel. Fire and smoke erupted from the enemy’s hull.

“Bullseye!” Rose whooped, and a cheer rose with her.

Gatling clapped Holland’s back, laughing. “You crazy bastard! Drinks are on me after this!”

Holland turned to reply—then froze.

A third ship. Emerging from behind the flames, a leviathan of steel with guns locked onto their position.

The world around him slowing to an agonizing crawl. The triumphant cries of his allies felt distant, muffled by the gravity of the moment.

His strategy had been sound: force the enemy into the narrow Kyushu Bay, where their modern warships would be within range of his ancient fortress cannons. With the enemy bottlenecked and exposed, his militia’s volleys could tear through their hulls. His gamble counted on the time it would take for the enemy to grasp his plan—by then, at least one destroyer would be sunk, and their commander would surely retreat rather than risk another.

But his opponent had outplayed him.

Two destroyers had entered the bay together—one shielding the other from his withering fire.

In that fleeting instant, as death stared him down through the enemy’s gun barrel, Holland felt a rare thing:

Respect.

“Down!” A voice roared—before the world ended in fire.

…

Darkness.

Holland was dreaming. He knew it because she was there.

The ground bled red around her, a ruin of shattered bodies. Gatling lay broken, his torso severed, his lifeblood painting the stone. Rose—her body, broken and still—shielded him from the blast.

And beyond the carnage, she approached.

Not her. Not the one he lost. But a shadow, draped in her likeness.

Rage ignited within Holland—a fury so intense it scorched away pain and shock. Was it the sight of his fallen comrades or the cold clarity that the woman before him was not her?

The ivory-handled revolver, once hers and now his, lay just beyond his reach, knocked free by the blast. Blood filled his mouth as he clenched his teeth and crawled forward, every muscle screaming in agony.

A voice, cold and sharp, broke through the chaos. “You’re Kyushu’s commander, aren’t you?”

He didn’t answer. He only reached, fingers brushing the worn grip of the revolver. His left hand braced the ground, trembling as he forced himself upright. Blood streamed from his brow, dyeing his vision crimson.

The woman faced him, a pistol leveled, amber eyes unblinking behind her glasses. “I won’t ask again. Where is Wasaru?”

Holland lifted his revolver, the weapon a mountain in his hand. Her expression flickered, a sigh escaping her lips. “A shame,” she said, finger tightening on the trigger. “You’re the finest commander I’ve faced.”

The shot rang out.

But pain did not come.

A voice, choked with blood, growled, “You’re a damn nuisance…”

Yoru stood before him—a ruin of flesh, his body shattered and bleeding, a bullet’s kiss through his chest. “Don’t… get the wrong idea,” he rasped, lips slick with crimson. “I’m only here… because your plan was insane.” And then he fell.

Holland wasted no breath on grief. His left hand snapped over his right, steadying the revolver as Yoru’s body crumpled—clearing his shot.

The woman’s soldiers raised their weapons.

He knew it was futile.

But killing her—that would be enough.

Her eyes, for the first time, flared with fear.

That was the difference between them.

He wasn’t afraid to die.

Because she was waiting for him on the other side.

His finger tightened on the trigger.

Then—

the world became blinding white.

For a breath, Holland believed he was dead.

But this was not the afterlife.

The woman still stood—her soldiers frozen, their faces mirroring his shock. All eyes turned upward.

The impossible lay before them: The horizon.

The Sunless World had no sky. Yet there it was—mountains, towering and crowned with dazzling light. Moss-clad cavern walls, stalactites like jagged teeth stretching for infinity. And beyond, peaks of Kyushu and distant islands, awash in a radiance that should not exist.

In that instant, the war—they—ceased to matter. Friend and foe alike stood as one, souls stripped bare by a miracle.

Holland’s revolver slipped from his grasp.

His body, drained beyond its limits, collapsed backward.

And as he fell, his eyes never left the light.

The light of a world no longer sunless.