The sun baked the sand scorching hot.
It was time for the daily "fry time."
On the cliff, hundreds of white figures had already gathered. This was no longer the simple foraging trip it had been at first; it had evolved into a solemn, ritualistic group event.
Piping hot fries were placed in ten designated wooden platters, their aroma drifting up the cliff on the sea breeze and tantalizing the taste buds of every Big Thief Gull.
But today, something had changed.
The few bipeds who delivered the fries didn’t retreat immediately as they usually did. They backed off to more than fifty meters away and just stood there, neither approaching nor leaving.
"The situation’s changed! The bipeds haven’t withdrawn!"
"It’s a trap! I knew it!"
The cliff descended into chaos. The younger gulls paced anxiously, restlessly flapping their wings. Their stomachs were growling, but the motionless figures in the distance kept them on high alert.
"Quiet!"
A short, authoritative cry silenced the commotion.
The flock’s leader stood up from its exclusive throne, its golden eyes sweeping over the beach below.
"Kovor! Situation analysis!"
The gull with the grayish-white feathers on its head stepped forward.
"Chief, based on observation, there are a total of five target units, assuming non-aggressive stances. They are maintaining a safe distance from the ’fries.’"
Another gull, this one powerfully built with a notch in its beak from a fight a few days ago, squawked.
"To hell with tactics! Rick! Take two of the guys, fly down there, and snatch the food! We’ll distribute it in the air!"
The young gull Rick, having been called out, shrank his neck.
"Pleavitt! Don’t be a coward!" the leader scolded. "That’s not your style."
"But, Chief... they’re just watching. This feels too weird," Rick muttered under his breath.
"It’s because it’s weird that we need to figure it out!"
It spread its wings.
"First and Second Assault Squads, with me! We’re executing ’Operation Gourmand’! All other units, stay behind and maintain aerial surveillance!"
The few gulls who were called out froze for a moment, clearly having never heard of this hastily fabricated operational codename.
Before they could exchange confused glances, the grayish-white-feathered Kovor lost his patience. He kicked the gull nearest him, then pecked another on the back of the head.
"Follow your orders! And cut the crap!"
Only then did a dozen or so of the strongest Big Thief Gulls rise into the air. They formed a tight wedge formation and glided toward the beach, following their leader.
They didn’t dive straight for the food. Instead, they landed about twenty meters away from Velin and his men, their massive wings kicking up a small curtain of sand.
The leader walked at the very front, its gait steady and measured, as if each step were precisely calculated. It didn’t look at the platters of golden fries, instead focusing all its attention on the bipeds.
The probing began.
At a signal from the leader, one gull cautiously approached the nearest wooden platter. It stretched out its neck, snatched a fry with a lightning-fast peck of its beak, and immediately retreated to the formation, presenting the prize to its leader.
The leader didn’t eat it. It just prodded the fry with the tip of its beak and sniffed it.
’Salt, grease, the toasted aroma of potato. Correct. The familiar recipe.’
The guards remained motionless.
The leader let out another short cry.
Another gull stepped forward. This time, it didn’t just take one. It wolfed down several mouthfuls before returning, satisfied.
It didn’t collapse. It didn’t twitch. Instead, it let out a loud burp.
"Report, Chief. Sample is non-toxic. Texture is crispy, salt content is appropriate. Judged to be A-plus-grade provisions."
The alert seemed to be lifted.
The leader finally strode forward, leading its "guard" toward the platters of fries. Even so, it maintained a final shred of caution, letting its subordinates eat first while it stood aside, monitoring the bipeds for any movement.
Soon, the dozen or so Big Thief Gulls were completely lost in the feast. They no longer paid any mind to the distant humans, focusing only on enjoying the fries on the wooden platters.
Humans and Magical Beasts, separated by a distance of twenty meters, had reached a tacit understanding over a few platters of French fries.
Two days later, the same scene played out again.
As the Big Thief Gulls were happily feasting, the Dwarf with the big beard, Ola, began to slowly approach them.
A few gulls on the perimeter immediately lifted their heads warily, letting out short warning cries. But their leader only glanced over and barked in a low voice, "Steady! He’s not carrying any weapons."
Following the leader’s command, the gulls watched hesitantly for a moment. Seeing that Ola was indeed empty-handed, walking slowly, and had no malicious intent, they lowered their heads again to enjoy the fries, only occasionally glancing up.
Ola continued, step by step, closing the distance.
Every time he got a little closer, a few gulls would look up at him, but seeing their leader and other companions still stuffing their faces, they would quickly relax their guard and return to the feast.
Finally, Ola succeeded in standing right beside them, only a few steps away from the gull leader. The aerial overlords had grown accustomed to his presence. As long as he didn’t make any further threatening moves, they couldn’t be bothered to pay him any mind, focusing solely on the fries in the platters.
’In its view, as long as this shorty didn’t interfere with its meal, there was no need to pay him any attention.’
Now.
When Ola was less than a meter from the leader, he took a large step forward, his right hand swiftly brushing the back of the gull leader’s neck.
A small, gray-black bug disappeared deep into the thick, white feathers.
Startled by the sudden movement, the gull leader leaped up. It angrily spread its wings and let out a sharp, warning cry.
Ola had already sprung back, hands raised, and quickly retreated to his original position.
Just as the gull leader was about to order an attack and teach this impertinent Dwarf a lesson, a strange "voice" rang out directly in its mind.
"Hello, powerful leader of the gulls."
The leader’s body stiffened.
’That’s not a sound, it’s... a thought, appearing directly in my mind!’
It looked around, shocked and uncertain. Its "soldiers" were still screeching at the short biped, but they clearly hadn’t "heard" it.
Its gaze finally landed on the leader of the bipeds in the distance.
Velin was looking at it calmly.
"Don’t be afraid. It’s more convenient to talk this way."
The second thought arrived.
The leader froze. It could feel that this "voice" was coming from the small, slimy thing on the back of its neck.
It let out an angry cry, trying to drown out this bizarre sensation with sheer volume.
"Alert! Alert! My brain has been hacked!"
Velin "understood" its roar.
"Don’t be nervous. I’m not a bad person. I just want to make a deal," was the third thought he sent. "You need food, and I need help. Let’s work together."
’Cooperation?’
The word temporarily quelled the leader’s rage.
It responded with a cry, but it knew the other party could understand its true meaning.
"Listen here, biped! We are an elite air corps, not some common ground-dwelling birds! When we want provisions, we take them ourselves!"
"Taking them... can you guarantee you’ll have them every day? Can you guarantee they’ll always be fresh out of the fryer, piping hot, and perfectly salted like this?"
"Just give the word, and from now on, the fry supply is doubled. I’ll even build you a dedicated mess hall. Eat whenever you want, as much as you want."
’Eat whenever I want, as much as I want?!’
For it, and for the entire "air corps," this offer was simply too tempting.
Kovor and the other confidants behind it also sensed something unusual from their leader’s uncharacteristic stupor.
"Chief?"
The leader ignored its subordinate.
"Your terms."
"Simple," Velin’s thought came again. "First, act as my sky patrol. Drive away any other birds that come to cause trouble. Second, when my ships go to sea, you fly above and protect them. Third, occasionally deliver messages for me."
’This... doesn’t sound like enslavement. It’s more like... an employment contract?’
"What about our freedom of movement? We are nobody’s pets!"
"When you’re not on a mission, the sky is yours. Go wherever you please."
"Our security guarantee?"
"Anyone who dares to bully you is picking a fight with me. I will protect you."
The leader fell silent.
’This biped is more cunning than I imagined, but also more frank. These... are acceptable terms.’
"Deal," it finally decided. "But remember, we are strategic partners, not your subordinates! I, and my ’First Special Air Service Regiment,’ accept your employment!"
"Excellent," Velin transmitted, his thoughts filled with satisfaction. "To mark the start of our cooperation, and to make future communication easier, your codename will be—Stuka."
Stuka.
The leader chewed on the sound of the name in its mind. Short, powerful, and it sounded good.
"This codename... I accept."
It whipped around and, facing its companions who had stopped screeching and now wore expressions full of question marks, let out a series of cries.
"Mission briefing! Listen up, men! We have reached a ’French Fry Peace Accord’ with the ground units! Starting today, our fry rations are doubled!"
On the beach, the flock of gulls erupted into a cacophony of ugly squawks.
A few days later, Velin stood before the window of his study in the Lord’s Mansion, watching with satisfaction the white figures in the sky carrying out their patrol missions.
Stuka and its flock adapted quickly. These intelligent gulls, at Velin’s direction, even began to attempt coordinated training exercises with designated Knights.
Although there were occasional Knights who got "airsick" from being unable to adapt to high-altitude flight, overall, everything was developing in a positive direction.
White Tower Territory now possessed its first aerial force worthy of a Count’s domain.
Just then, there was a knock on the study door.
Tristan walked in and placed a document on Velin’s desk.
His expression was somewhat grim.
"My Lord, an urgent report from the heart of the Gray Swamp."
Velin picked up the document, the smile not yet having fully faded from his face.
"An urgent report? Clover Village? What’s going on there? Did they run out of farming tools to distribute?"
He said this as he unfolded the papyrus sheet.
The handwriting on the paper was messy, clearly written by a messenger in extreme haste.
"...On the night of June seventeenth, in Clover Village, three children simultaneously presented with symptoms of coughing up blood..."
The smile on Velin’s face vanished.
He looked up, his gaze traveling past the white birds celebrating their victory outside the window, toward the inland, in the direction of that vast swamp.
’How could the plague, which was supposed to be completely under control, break out in the heart of my territory—’