The Terror Of Mental Manipulation

Ian had measured his height and found it had increased significantly. Last year he had been 165cm tall—now he had grown to 170cm. Though that was a solid growth, he still felt it wasn’t enough. Shouldn’t he at least reach 180cm?

‘I’m still growing, so it’s not impossible.’

While contemplating his growth, Ian hosted a modest party to celebrate the new year. It wasn’t held in the city, but rather on his ship—a small deck party. Fortunately, the Doicheun Empire’s navy was also taking a break to celebrate the new year and wasn’t launching any attacks.

‘Thank goodness. At least we’re breathing easier with supplies now.’

Thanks to covert aid from the other two empires, a significant amount of supplies had been delivered. With that, food and ammunition were now being replenished more steadily. It was only a matter of time before the Doicheun Empire discovered the secret supply route and tried to cut it off.

Though that would require much more military strength.

Until now, the Doicheun Empire had focused their land forces along both coastal fronts. They hadn’t attempted to invade from inland areas. Why? Likely because the landmass was simply too vast.

Even just pushing toward the coastal cities was proving difficult—spreading their forces thinner inland would only create opportunities for a counterattack. Thus, they hadn’t dared make a move inland. It might be different if they were launching from their homeland, but mobilizing a large force from colonial lands was not easy.

Even if they gathered hundreds of thousands of troops in their homeland, they would need to transport them across the vast ocean—requiring a massive fleet of transport ships and enormous financial costs. For now, the Doicheun Empire could only utilize forces stationed in their colonies.

As laughter and celebration filled the air, Ian stood on the deck, quietly staring out at the dark sea. Around him, other ships floated nearby, their deck lights flickering in the night. Just like his, other vessels were hosting small parties to celebrate the new year.

Step, step.

He heard footsteps approaching and turned to see his deputy captain walking toward him. Unlike his previously stern expression, he now approached with a faint smile. Over time, it seemed their bond had grown stronger.

“Still watching the sea?”

“What else is there to do here besides stare at the sea?”

“True. Life on a ship offers limited entertainment. Even more so for you, Captain. But how about a drink?”

“Come now, I’m still underage. Maybe after my coming-of-age ceremony next year, but not yet.”

“Ah, right. You act so mature I forgot you’re not of age.”

Derian Zeco (Major) had extended a glass of wine toward him but sheepishly pulled it back after remembering Ian’s age. He turned to gaze at their allied ships scattered across the water.

“Everyone’s enjoying themselves now, but soon we’ll be fighting again, won’t we?”

“I suppose so.”

“…Lately, it all feels strange.”

“What seems strange?”

“They’re all calling our ship a miracle vessel.”

That comment struck a nerve. Ian had been deflecting all incoming shells with his powers. If they had been fired from close range, everyone would be sure of it—but since the misses came from long distance, they could chalk it up to chance.

“It is strange, isn’t it?”

“You think so too, Captain? No matter how well I give evasive orders, something’s just off.”

“Have you figured out why?”

“I haven’t. I just think… maybe we’re really lucky?”

“Could be luck.”

“Yes… if it’s not luck, then what else could it be?”

The deputy captain seemed genuinely confused. He knew something was off but couldn’t explain it. Ian, of course, couldn’t offer any clarity, which left him feeling awkward. He even wondered if he should’ve let a few shells land to maintain appearances.

‘No… if anyone had died, I’d regret it.’

Besides, even a single shell could cause a catastrophic explosion if it struck the wrong place. If he wanted to survive, he had to keep deflecting everything. He was confident that as long as he remained onboard, the ship would never be hit.

“I hope that same luck will help us win, too.”

“You mean… in the broader war?”

“Yes. If our luck shifts toward victory, that would be wonderful.”

“Indeed. That would be ideal.”

Derian Zeco knew it was nothing but wishful thinking. No amount of luck could make defeating the Doicheun Empire’s colonial fleet a realistic outcome.

Two months into the new year, the fighting resumed. The colonial forces of the Polia Kingdom, now supported by continued supplies from the two other empires, held firm.

The Doicheun Empire, learning of this only later, released a statement condemning the aid. But the Moria and Noma Empires turned a blind eye. Neither wanted the Doicheun Empire to win too decisively.

Despite their naval defeat, the Polia Kingdom had been putting up a strong defense. The other empires judged it worthwhile to support them secretly. While direct aid to the surrounded homeland was impossible, they could still send supplies via the vast colonial territories.

Still, the war was not getting any easier. The Imperial forces had grown battle-hardened and were devising new methods to break through the trenches—one being the use of aircraft.

Biplanes transported via cargo ships attempted to drop bombs directly over the trenches. However, they were met with a hail of machine gun fire and aerial opposition from Polia’s own fighter planes, resulting in heavy losses for the Doicheun air units.

Still, some damage was done. Several Polian planes were shot down, and some soldiers in trenches were killed by falling bombs. The Doicheun army kept up its relentless assault, and casualties continued to mount.

Each day, wounded soldiers flooded into the city. Alongside them, bodies were brought in and cremated in joint funerals to prevent the spread of disease.

Tens of thousands had already died. And people were still dying. The soldiers were growing weary of endless warfare. A whole year had passed, and the fighting had not stopped. It seemed likely this year would bring more of the same.

As countless men perished in the trenches on land, battles continued at sea. The Doicheun colonial fleet still could not approach the coast under the relentless fire of Polia’s shore batteries.

As a result, their three remaining battleships had been forced to retreat farther offshore.

Doicheun Empire Navy — Prea-class Battleship (Hull No. 6: Renew).

With over a thousand crew aboard, this massive warship bustled with personnel carrying out their duties. Among them were new crew members, recently reassigned just three days earlier. One of them, Jackson, was now aboard the Renew and was determined to get revenge on the Polians.

‘Just wait. You locked me in that pigsty? Now I’ll make you pay.’

His teeth clenched instinctively. If a soldier from the Polia Kingdom had been standing in front of him now, he would have gladly put a bullet through their head. Jackson, though he had grown gaunt from mistreatment and lack of proper meals, had regained his strength after being repatriated.

Though it had taken nearly two months, he had returned to good health and was now reassigned to duty. His new role was that of a shell handler—a job that required specialized training and strong security awareness. It wasn’t a position just anyone could take.

Jackson had previously worked as a shell handler on a cruiser. That cruiser had been sunk under intense attack from the Polia Kingdom’s coastal batteries. He had survived by jumping into the sea—only to be captured and taken as a prisoner of war.

He was fortunate. The previous handler for the battleship had fallen ill with a severe fever and could no longer work, leading to Jackson’s reassignment to this ship. Originally, he was meant to return to a cruiser, but fate had brought him here.

‘These shells I’m handling should be falling right now on the city where I was imprisoned.’

Eager for the Imperial Navy’s victory, Jackson soon arrived at the entrance of the shell storage chamber. Guards were already stationed there—security was tight, and for good reason.

He passed through identification and stepped into the storage area. Within the vast space were rows of shells: 305mm ones for the main guns and 150mm shells for the secondary artillery. There were at least two such storage rooms within the battleship.

He felt a rush of ecstasy just looking at the shells. To think that these could rain down on the enemy and reduce everything to ash—how magnificent and thrilling! A chill ran up his spine.

‘Heh heh heh, it’s the same rush every time.’

Cracking his neck and taking in a deep breath through his nose, he reached out and ran his hand across the cold metal casing of a shell. And then—his eyes glazed over. The rapture on his face vanished completely.

Now his expression was blank, almost doll-like. Slowly, his head turned in another direction.

“…Sink…the battleship…sink…the…battleship…”

The words came out in a broken mutter. Clearly, something was wrong. Jackson’s gaze shifted to the stockpiled shells in the room.

Fifteen minutes later.

“What’s that sound?”

“Dunno. Is the new shell handler doing something weird?”

“There’s this constant banging. Should we go check it out?”

“Yeah, probably.”

Although the shell storage room was technically under the sole authority of the shell handler, the disturbing noise prompted the two guards to open the door. What they saw made them freeze. Dozens of shell casings had been tampered with—opened or damaged.

Something dark was scattered across the floor.

“Isn’t that… gunpowder?”

Then they spotted Jackson—holding a steel pipe.

So that was the source of the banging.

“What… what the hell are you doing!?”

“Stop that, now—!”

The guards shouted, panic rising in their voices. But Jackson continued to slam the steel pipe down. Clang! Sparks flew where the metal met the floor, and horror spread across the guards’ faces.

They realized exactly what was about to happen.

Thankfully, the spark hadn’t ignited anything—yet.

“Sink… the battleship…”

His palms were shredded from the force of his grip, and the muscles in his arms writhed from strain. The mind was driving the body beyond its limits. This state of strength was purely temporary.

“No—!”

“Stop!”

Still blank-eyed, Jackson raised the pipe once more. In desperation, the guards drew their sidearms and pulled the triggers.

They had forgotten the cardinal rule: Never fire a gun inside the shell storage room.

Bang! Bang bang! Bang!

Jackson staggered, bullets ripping into his body. But instead of collapsing, he charged forward—like a man high on drugs, immune to pain.

“Ahhh!”

“Keep firing!”

Bang! Bang bang! Bang bang!

Bullets riddled Jackson’s body, but he kept coming. And with the chaotic gunfire, several bullets missed—ricocheting off the walls.

One of them struck the floor.

Ssst!

It ignited a spark.

The loose powder scattered across the floor caught fire.

Only now did the guards realize their fatal mistake. Their faces went pale—but it was already too late.

The explosion had begun.

BOOOOOM—!

A massive explosion tore through the storage room. And that was only the beginning. One detonation triggered another in a devastating chain reaction.

The Doicheun Empire’s battleship shuddered violently and began to sink.

From the outside, it would appear to be a sudden, catastrophic accident. But this was far from over—Ian’s plan was still in motion.