Central World. Magdola Archipelago.

  Nameless Island (Crash Sector of the HME Air Wing).

  The "Gray Period" (after the Battle, but before the official demarcation of borders).

  Observation of the slaughter between the Gra-Valkas Empire and the Holy Mirishial Empire brought the GRU analysts and the scientific staff of the Academy of Synthesis more than just an understanding of the opposing sides' tactics. It ignited a burning, predatory interest in the technologies of the vanquished.

  Russian scientists, studying the battle telemetry, noticed an anomaly: the shields of the Mirishial ships—the Water Aegis and Terra-Bastion—although they fell under the hail of shells, demonstrated principles of energy absorption inaccessible to Earth physics. And the new Alpha-3 fighters, despite their wretched aerodynamics and loss in speed to the enemy's piston-engine machines, flew without propellers or visible turbines. Their "Light-Compression Engine" generated thrust through direct magical manipulation of gases. For Russian engineers, who had hit the material limits of gas-turbine engines, this was the "Holy Grail." The possibility of creating an engine with no moving parts.

  An official request from the Russian Foreign Ministry to Runepolis for a sample to study hit a polite, but firm, wall of refusal.

  The Empire, even humiliated, guarded its secrets jealously, like an old maid guarding her jewelry.

  In the Kremlin, they shrugged their shoulders and passed the task to Khodynka, the headquarters of the GRU. If you cannot get a gift, you can find it in the trash. Fortunately, the entire Magdola Archipelago was now a "dump."

  Island Coastline.

  Time: 03:40. Pre-dawn darkness.

  The coastal forest saturated the air with dampness and the scent of decaying leaves. The silence here was broken only by the muffled sound of the surf and the rare cries of nocturnal birds.

  — "Zero-One," in position. "Eye," give me a visual, — the recon team commander uttered in a barely audible whisper, gently keying the PTT on his headset.

  He lay in the thick ferns, blending into the terrain thanks to his "Leshiy" ghillie suit in "Digital Flora" pattern, worn over his light armor. His face was concealed by a balaclava and a layer of special thermal-masking face paint. Mounted on his helmet, alongside his NVGs (night vision goggles), was a compact tactical camera unit broadcasting a live feed to the operation headquarters aboard the submarine.

  A finger in a fingerless glove rested habitually and relaxedly against the trigger guard of his AK-107. This rare weapon, featuring a balanced recoil system, was chosen for a reason: its minimal recoil allowed for precision fire even in bursts. But the key detail wasn't the "Valday" holographic sight with its magnifier, nor even the massive cylinder of the tactical suppressor.

  The key detail was the pouch made of dense synthetic fabric attached to the ejection port—a brass catcher.

  The order was absolute: "Not a single gram of metal 'Made in Russia' on foreign soil." Not a single casing. Not a single cigarette butt. In the event of a firefight—bodies were to be retrieved or destroyed with acid (which was included in their loadout).

  — Feed is crystal clear, — replied the operator from the submarine hovering at periscope depth five miles offshore. — Satellite thermal scan complete. The objective is one kilometer from your position, azimuth four-two. It's in the shallow marsh. Background radiation is stable, no guards present.

  — Copy that. "Zero-One," moving out.

  The commander signaled with his hand. Silhouettes emerged soundlessly from the forest shadows like ghosts. A team of ten SOF operators—the elite, drilled for sabotage in any climate—and two "eggheads."

  The two specialists from the Academy of Synthesis (a magi-engineer and a technician) wore the same uniforms but moved with slightly less confidence, clutching not weapons, but magic-dampening containers and dismantling tools.

  Mission Objective: Downed "Alpha-3" fighter. One of the aircraft, shot down by an Antares in the aerial dogfight, hadn't exploded in mid-air but had crash-landed in the forest of a (conditionally) uninhabited island of the archipelago.

  — Watch your step, — the rearguard whispered. — Vines everywhere.

  The task was grueling. They had to navigate game trails in total darkness, using only passive NVGs to avoid giving away their position with IR illuminators. But the main factors were time and the neighbors.

  Just six kilometers south, on the coast, the Mirishials had already restored a field airfield and a military base. A garrison, sensor-mages, and possibly patrols were stationed there. One loud sound, one flare of magic during the reactor dismantling—and the wrath of the "allies" would crash down on the team, instantly escalating into an international scandal and war.

  The group dissolved into the greenery, moving toward their objective like a virus invading an organism—silently, invisibly, and with deadly efficiency.

  Twenty minutes later.

  "Attention, team," the sniper's voice, lying prone on the ridge, sounded dry and dispassionate in their headsets, like a twig snapping. "Sector 'Lowland'. Visual contact. Sixteen 'units'. Ten in full combat gear—Imperial infantry, armed with magic rifles. Security is lax, smoking. Two are loading containers into the bed of a mana-mobile. Four more are civilians in gray tech-overalls, working directly on the objective, cutting into the fuselage."

  Commander "Zero-One" closed his eyes for a second, visualizing the assault plan. There was no time for deliberation. If they loaded the engine and drove off, intercepting the convoy quietly would be impossible.

  "Copy that. Executing 'Pincer' protocol," he commanded quietly. "'One-Four' [sniper]—the two by the truck and the driver are yours. Engage when ready. The rest: flank assault. Priority: do not drop the 'grays'; they are intelligence assets and needed for dismantling. If they twitch—kneecap them. The guards are expendable. Sub-groups—move out."

  A one-second pause. Breath held. Smooth squeeze.

  THWIP!

  The sound of the shot from the suppressed SVCh-54 (Chukavin Sniper Rifle) was swallowed by the humid air. The heavy 7.62 sniper round struck the Mirishial standing by the open tailgate of the truck precisely at the base of the skull. His head snapped back, and his body, like a marionette with severed strings, folded silently, collapsing into the mud.

  His partner didn't even have time to turn his head. The second bullet entered below the clavicle, shredding his lung.

  The third shot shattered the truck's windshield. The driver in the cab convulsively threw his hands to his throat, from which a scarlet fountain sprayed, and tumbled out of the open door like a sack.

  The Imperial soldiers froze. They hadn't heard the shots. They only saw their comrades falling. It was death from nowhere.

  "What the—?!.. Alar—" the corporal started to yell, but never finished.

  From the thick undergrowth on both sides, black cylinders arched into the center of the camp.

  "Flash!" the Russians barked into their headsets, simultaneously squeezing their eyes shut and turning away.

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  Three "Zarya-3" stun grenades detonated split-seconds apart. The jungle was illuminated by a magnesium flash of millions of candelas, and a 170-decibel acoustic shockwave ruptured the eardrums of the unprotected Mirishials.

  The effect was instantaneous and paralyzing. Men dropped to their knees, clutching ears that leaked blood. They were blinded and disoriented. Their training, designed for mage duels or linear skirmishes, was useless against 21st-century assault tactics.

  One of the guardsmen, the most resilient, tried blindly to ram a crystal into the chamber of his rifle. But his hands, seized by the wild, animalistic tremors of a concussion, wouldn't obey. The precious mana-charge fell into the mud. He reached for a second one, but time had run out.

  From the tree line, without breaking stride, black figures in camouflage poured out, the "predatory" eyes of their night vision goggles glowing.

  The balanced-recoil assault rifles worked in disciplined double-taps.

  Click-click. Click-click.

  Every second Mirishial folded to the ground without ever realizing what was happening. The 5.45 caliber bullets (7N39 "Igolnik"), capable of piercing Class 5 body armor, punched through light magical cuirasses like paper. Someone howled, trying to hold his shot-open stomach. Another lay motionless, arms spread wide.

  "Go-go! Push through!" Commander "Zero-One" advanced without ducking, controlling his sector of fire. His barrel transitioned smoothly from target to target.

  In the center of the clearing, propped up against the landing gear of the wrecked fighter, a young Mirishial soldier was slumped. His chest heaved, pierced in two places. Pink foam bubbled from his mouth. Seeing the looming figure of the Russian Spetsnaz operator, blinded by the flashbang, he instinctively, childishly reached out a bloodied hand toward him.

  "Hhh-a-ahk… H-help… me…" he gurgled, choking on his own blood.

  The SSO operator didn't stop. He didn't even slow his pace. Pity on raids like this was an unaffordable luxury. A wounded enemy is a threat.

  "Check."

  Two dry cracks.

  The first bullet—center mass, to knock the wind out of him if the mage tried to cast a spell. The second—right in the head, to shut down the brain. The body twitched and went still. The hand fell into the mud.

  Meanwhile, another element of the team (a "pair") was already on the technicians in gray coveralls. Stunned and blinded, they were crawling on all fours near the engine.

  The Russian operator swung his rifle butt hard into the nearest "egghead's" jaw, knocking him cold.

  "Down, bitch! Face in the dirt! Hands behind your head!"

  The second was swept off his feet. A knee to the ribs knocked the wind out of him, hands jerked back. Plastic flex-cuffs zipped tight around his wrists. The technicians didn't even try to resist—their world had collapsed in three seconds.

  Silence fell over the clearing, broken only by the hiss of radios and heavy breathing. The entire engagement had taken twenty-five seconds.

  "'Zero-One' to Team. Clear," the commander said, reloading his rifle. "Casualties—zero. Cargo status?"

  "This is 'Zero-Two', we're at the target," a voice responded from the other side of the fuselage. "'The Asset' (engine) is visually intact. Techs taken alive. We are good to go."

  Central World. Port City of Cartalpas.

  Port Authority Administration Building. Chief's Office.

  Two months after the fall of the city.

  This city had become the Rubicon for the entire world. It was here that centuries-old illusions collapsed, and a new, terrifying era began. The traces of monstrous fires and bombardments that turned the "Pearl of Mirishial" into smoking ruins had been almost erased thanks to the round-the-clock work of golem-builders and Russian engineers from EMERCOM, but the scars remained. In the hollow eye-sockets of new, hastily erected buildings, in the fresh cobblestones of the embankment, and in the eyes of residents who no longer smiled without reason.

  And right here, in the sacred waters of the restored harbor, the most powerful fist this planet had ever clenched was now gathering.

  The World Alliance Combined Fleet.

  Port Director Bronto sat in his office on the top floor, which offered a panoramic view of the outer roadstead. He couldn't tear himself away from the window. On his polished mahogany desk, piled high with invoices for fuel and ammunition, stood an open bottle of "Black Label"—an expensive, sharp-tasting Russian swill that he had become addicted to lately.

  After that "Night of Fire," when he watched with horror as the Russians' steel ships entered the port, and then—as the pride of his homeland, the Zero Fleet, died—the official gained significantly more gray hair. His face, once sleek with self-satisfaction, was now gaunt, with bags of chronic insomnia and stress lying under his eyes.

  Ships arrived and arrived, like a river of steel. The entire water area up to the very horizon was packed with a forest of masts, smokestacks, and magical antennas.

  It was a grandiose, overwhelming spectacle. More than two hundred and fifty combat pennants.

  The core of this power consisted of the reborn and reinforced First, Second, and Third Fleets of the Holy Mirishial Empire. Their new, modernized battleships, equipped with experimental "light" shields, shone with whiteness. Beside them, rocking on the waves, stood the heavy ironclads of the Kingdom of Torquia, the gold-adorned frigates of Agartha, and the angular, functional ships of Mu, which had been hastily repainted in gray camouflage on the advice of Russian "consultants."

  Crowds of people on the embankments were in a frenzy. Tens of thousands of citizens filling the piers shouted, wept with delight, and threw flowers and ribbons into the water. For them, this armada was a symbol of retribution. A divine hand that would squeeze the throats of the offenders. Magical music from loudspeakers thundered with bravura marches, drowning out the noise of the wind.

  Bronto took a large gulp of whiskey, neat. The liquid burned his throat but did not quell the cold in his stomach.

  He looked at the jubilant people and saw dead men. He remembered how the Atlastar dismantled their defenses. He remembered the Russian squadron, which had left, unwilling to dirty its hands.

  "It is time to pay those bastards a return visit," he uttered hollowly into the emptiness of the room, blowing a cloud of cigar smoke at the glass.

  There was no joy in his words. Only fatal necessity. He knew from secret reports passing through his port that there, in the west, Gra-Valkas had turned the captured lands into an impregnable fortress.

  "Can they do it?" he thought, looking at the flagship battleship majestically giving a farewell blast. "Two hundred and fifty ships. Against machines and that main machine. The mathematics of war says we have a chance. But why then do I have this feeling that I am seeing them off to a slaughter?"

  The signal for departure rolled like thunder over the water.

  A force seemingly capable of overturning the world weighed anchor, raising clouds of spray. Smoke obscured the sun.

  Magic turbines howled, gaining RPM.

  Amidst the deafening roar of the crowd, amidst the tears of mothers and wives, amidst the ringing of bells, the World Alliance Combined Fleet, forming into endless marching columns, slowly and inexorably turned west. Toward where, beyond the horizon, waited not barbarians with clubs, but bloodthirsty, science-armed demons from another world. The Great Campaign had begun.

  The Gra-Valkas Empire. Imperial Capital — Ragna.

  National Army and Navy General Command Headquarters.

  Two weeks later.

  In the smoke-filled conference room lined with bog oak, where blue-gray clouds of expensive cigar smoke swirled beneath the ceiling, hung an atmosphere of predatory, intoxicating anticipation. Officers in impeccable uniforms, hung with decorations for the conquest of Leifor, leaned over a giant map of the region.

  The Head of Intelligence (Hamidall's deputy, as the chief himself was "indisposed") outlined the water area west of the Mu continent with a pointer.

  "According to the latest aerial reconnaissance data and mana-signal intercepts, the enemy has begun deployment. Mirishial's Southern Fleet has linked up with the Mu fleet and small squadrons of vassals. The total strength of the armada is two hundred and fifty pennants. Including obsolete ironclads and magic battleships. The vector of movement is toward occupied Leifor."

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  A hum of approval swept around the table. This was not an army to be feared. This was game walking toward the hunter on its own.

  "Two hundred and fifty ships... It seems these savages have finally gotten deadly serious," drawled Admiral Caesar, commander of the Eastern Fleet. He sat sprawled in an armchair, twirling a glass of amber brandy in his fingers. A bloodthirsty smile played on his face, looking more like a shark's grin.

  "They've gathered all the scrap metal they had into one pile. Excellent. I won't have to chase them all over the ocean. I will crush them all with one blow, with the full power of our Empire. It will be a slaughter, gentlemen."

  The formal part of the meeting ended quickly. The "intercept and destroy" plan was approved unanimously. The council smoothly transitioned into an informal drinking bout, where generals and admirals divided the skins of bears not yet killed.

  "Speaking of bears," one of the Ground Forces staff generals, flushed with wine, poked a finger at the eastern edge of the map. "What about this... Russia? Our field agents report strange stirrings on the borders of Mu. Russian transports are landing one after another. Unloading some containers, men in motley uniforms."

  Caesar, who was taking a large gulp at that moment, suddenly choked. The liquid went down the wrong pipe. The Admiral coughed, his face turned purple, and his eyes watered. But not from the cough.

  The satisfied expression on his face instantly vanished, replaced by a frowning, tense mask. He slammed the glass onto the table with a thud.

  "What?.." he uttered hoarsely, turning his whole body toward the speaker. Steel clanged in his voice. "Repeat that. Armament? Numbers? Are these regular units?"

  The general waved his hand dismissively.

  "Do not be angry, Your High Excellency; there is nothing to worry about. As reported—these are ordinary mercenaries. 'PMCs,' as they call themselves. Warehouse and shop guards. You know these Landsknechts—rabble ready to fight for coin but running at the first serious bombardment." The general chuckled, pleased with his joke. "They drink, play cards, discipline is limping. Their training leaves much to be desired. Mercenaries are a relic of medieval history; wars are not won with them. For the National Army of the Gra-Valkas Empire, with our tank wedges, some watchmen pose no threat. We'll roll over them if they stick their noses out."

  A herd of cold, vile goosebumps ran down Caesar's spine, a man who usually knew no fear. With an effort of will, he forced himself to maintain a calm expression and only gave a dry, curt nod. But inside, everything clenched.

  This whole story with "Russia" strained him to the point of trembling. Officially—neutrality. His Imperial Majesty Gralux himself, under penalty of court-martial, had forbidden any provocations toward Russian ships or bases. This was an unprecedented order for their expansionist policy.

  Caesar didn't know the details, but he had eyes and ears. Scraps of terrifying rumors from the "black offices" of Intelligence reached him. They said that a secretly sent submarine with a group of elite special forces to the Russian shores... simply vanished. And then a Russian ship "returned" the survivors—broken, gray-haired, drooling idiots.

  They said they were shown something.

  No ordinary mortal had seen or knew the contents. But Hamidall, the "iron" intelligence chief, after watching it, went on a drinking binge for three days, and when he returned, he had aged ten years and looked gaunt, as if he had seen his own death. And Mopaul, the Foreign Minister, walked around paler than a sheet, flinched at loud sounds, and acted sluggishly, as if under hypnosis.

  Caesar knew: if the mercenaries in Mu were Russians, then this wasn't "rabble." This was a trap.

  But he remained silent. No one wanted to tell more. Neither threats of execution, nor blackmail, nor gold could untie the tongues of those who had seen the "Russian Cassette." In their eyes was frozen such primal horror, before which even fear of the Emperor faded.

  The Gra-Valkas Empire. Imperial Capital — Ragna.

  Imperial Palace "Iron Peak." Small Audience Chamber.

  One month ago (before the Battle of Cartalpas).

  Dead silence reigned in the small, isolated office where issues too dangerous even for the ears of ministers were decided. The only sound was the low hum of a transformer and the crackle of static. On the massive oak desk before the Emperor sat a bulky, angular device in a khaki-colored metal casing, with thick cables running from it to a portable generator.

  In the device's loading slot, a black videocassette sat ominously—a rectangular plastic block with magnetic tape, a technology the Empire's scientists currently knew only in theory. Russian diplomats had handed over this "artifact" and the device to play it "as a token of respect and a warning."

  On the device's built-in convex screen, flickering with grayish light, the recording had just ended. It was black and white, grainy, with bands of interference running across it periodically, clearly filmed a very long time ago. But what broke through that static was an absolute nightmare.

  A giant mushroom cloud of smoke and ash growing into the stratosphere. A shockwave blowing away model cities, steel ships, and echelons of tanks like houses of cards, turning them into dust. Light that, even through the murky screen, seemed brighter than a thousand suns.

  Emperor Gralux, ruler of the most powerful nation of his home world, a man whose name was used to frighten children on two continents, slowly leaned back in his chair. His face was ash-gray, and the fingers gripping the armrest had turned white.

  "This… What is this weapon, Hamidall?" his voice, usually steely and commanding, now sounded hoarse and unrecognizable, as if he had just looked into the eyes of Death itself.

  The Director of the Intelligence Bureau standing nearby looked no better. Since the day his men returned, he had barely slept, rewatching this tape over and over.

  "This is archival footage, Your Imperial Majesty. Tests of so-called 'thermonuclear weapons'… eighty years ago."

  Gralux flinched.

  "Eighty years?.."

  "Yes, sir. When handing over the… videocassette… the Russian diplomats politely explained: this is their great-grandfathers' technology. Doomsday weapons. What we saw on the screen is just a single warhead." Hamidall swallowed, feeling dryness in his throat. "According to the data obtained from our 'returnees,' over these decades they haven't just preserved the technology. They have perfected it. Miniaturized it. Made it more precise. They claim, and we have no grounds to disbelieve them, that their tactical stockpile is enough to turn the entire surface of this planet into a poisonous desert. A glass ball where nothing grows. In forty minutes."

  Silence hung in the room again, interrupted only by the whirring of the idling reel inside the VCR. Now the silence pressed on their shoulders like a concrete slab.

  All plans of conquest, battleships, tanks, strategies—all of it suddenly seemed to the Emperor like mice scurrying in a sandbox, next to which stands an adult with a jerrycan of gasoline.

  The Empire could conquer the world. Russia could turn this world off.

  "..."

  Without saying a word, the second most powerful man in the state after the Gods leaned down and, with a trembling hand, pulled a pot-bellied bottle of collectible cognac aged one hundred years from a personal bar under the table. He usually drank only on great holidays. Now the occasion was weightier than any holiday—the realization of his own mortality.

  He took out two heavy crystal glasses and splashed the dark liquid into them without caring for etiquette—to the brim.

  He silently slid one glass across the polished tabletop to the intelligence chief.

  Hamidall, forgetting insubordination, took the glass. Both men, Emperor and spy, looked at each other. No toast was needed.

  They downed the burning liquid in one gulp, feeling neither taste nor aroma. The alcohol hit their heads, dispersing the icy terror just a little.

  Gralux set the empty glass on the table with a thud, next to the buzzing device on whose screen static snow had frozen.

  "Does Mopaul know about this?" the Emperor asked dryly, nodding at the device.

  "Negative, Your Imperial Majesty. The Minister of Foreign Affairs does not have clearance for 'Omega' category materials."

  The Emperor exhaled slowly.

  "Show him. It is necessary. He is your formal superior, and he has to negotiate with them. Let him understand why his tone must change."

  Gralux raised his eyes to Hamidall, in which for the first time there was no imperial grandeur, only the harsh, pragmatic necessity of survival.

  "And one more thing. Issue a circular. Classified 'Top Secret,' personal delivery to all fleet and army commanders, right up to Caesar. My personal, direct order: under no circumstances, under no pretext, accidentally or intentionally—is any pressure to be exerted on the Russian Federation. No provocations. No sideways glances. If any of my admirals decides to 'flex his muscles' in front of a Russian flag and provokes a conflict... I will strangle the idiot with my own hands right on this table. We cannot fight them, Hamidall. Not now. Perhaps—never."

  "I obey, Your Imperial Majesty," the intelligence officer exhaled with relief. Reason had defeated pride.

  "Those boys who returned from captivity..." The Emperor stumbled for a second. "They saw things they shouldn't have. But they served faithfully. Reward them. Medals, bonuses, promotions. And give them leave. A month. Two. Let them come to their senses, heal their nerves. They earned it. And... ensure silence. No one outside this room must know that we got scared."

  "It will be done, Your Imperial Majesty. Total secrecy."

  "That is all, Hamidall. You may go," Gralux turned away to the dark window, beyond which shone the lights of the great capital, which could disappear in the second of a single flash. "I still need to... think some things over. About our place in this new world."

  "Yes, Your Imperial Majesty."

  The door closed soundlessly. The Emperor was left one-on-one with the device from the future and the knowledge that would henceforth become his main nightmare and main secret. The Empire would continue the war with the natives, but now he knew: standing behind the natives was the shadow of a giant.

  Central World. Holy Mirishial Empire. Imperial Capital — Runepolis.

  Palace of Albion. The Emperor's Personal Office.

  Two months ago (One week after the declaration of the Great War).

  At this hour, when the sun was at its zenith, gilding the spires of the capital, the most guarded wing of the palace was quiet and dim.

  Guards of the elite corps, clad in magi-power armor, stood by the doors, immobile as statues but ready to incinerate anyone without clearance.

  Hyrkan Parpe, Director of the Ministry of Countermeasures against the Ancient Magical Empire, walked down the corridor, trying not to clack his heels on the mirrored floor. His department was the most secretive in the country. They were the gravediggers and jailers of history. Their task was not to create the new, but to guard the old—what slept in deep bunkers and ruins, awaiting its hour or the end of the world.

  A summons to the Emperor "without subpoena or protocol" could only mean one thing: the crisis had reached the stage where ordinary laws cease to function.

  The commander of the escort knocked delicately on the tall ebony panels.

  "Enter."

  Parpe straightened his robe, gathered his will into a fist, and stepped inside.

  The Sacred Emperor's personal office was not a place of luxury, but of work. Walls were lined with shelves holding ancient tomes and memory crystals. The air here was not scented with incense, but with the dry dust of time and magical ozone.

  In the center of the room, behind a massive carved desk piled with maps and intelligence reports, sat the one considered a living god.

  Mirishial VIII (Lucius) didn't even raise his head. He was writing rapidly with a glowing stylus, his brows drawn together at the bridge of his nose, and an aura of heavy, leaden irritation hovered around his figure.

  On the edge of the desk sat an exquisite porcelain tea set: a teapot painted with runes of tranquility, and two translucent cups from which fragrant steam rose, smelling of mountain herbs and eternity.

  "Your Sacred Majesty," Parpe bowed deeply, feeling a drop of cold sweat crawl down his back under the heavy fabric of his official robes.

  "Sit down, Hyrkan," the Emperor said without looking up from the document. His voice was calm, but in this silence, it sounded like an order to lie down in a coffin. "Don't hover over me."

  Parpe nervously pulled out a heavy armchair, trying not to make a sound, and perched on the very edge. His gaze wandered around the office, avoiding looking directly at the ruler.

  "Help yourself. It's 'Tears of Dawn'. Helps clarify thoughts." Lucius finally set aside the stylus and gestured to the teapot.

  With trembling fingers, the Director poured himself some tea. He tasted nothing—whether it was poison or ambrosia, he would have swallowed it just the same.

  The hot liquid scalded his throat, but this physical discomfort helped to shake off some of the stupor caused by proximity to absolute power.

  "Thank you... How may this worthless servant be of use to Your Sacred Majesty in this dark hour?" he finally squeezed out, gathering his courage.

  Hyrkan Parpe knew why he had been summoned but was afraid to admit it even to himself. His department didn't deal with politics or conventional war. They were the scavengers of the apocalypse. Excavation of forbidden zones. Analysis of cursed artifacts of Ravernal. Attempts to revive technologies that killed the gods themselves. If they were calling him—it meant the situation had spiraled out of control.

  The Emperor slowly raised his eyes to him. In his ancient gaze, which had seen the rise and fall of dozens of states, there was no wisdom now. There was the cold, calculating necessity of murder.

  "I need the sky, Hyrkan," Lucius said quietly. "We have nothing to oppose their iron birds with. Therefore... I am issuing the order for Code 'Red'. Begin the reactivation procedure. I need full combat deployment of two 'Sky Fortresses'. Pal Chimera Type-01 and Type-02 must take to the air."

  The cup in Parpe's hands clinked against the saucer. The official's face turned white.

  Pal Chimera. Flying battleships of the Ancient Magical Empire. Monsters restored from wreckage, stuffed with unstable magic, requiring as much mana for flight as a province consumes. Weapons used not for victory, but for total annihilation.

  "B-but... Your Majesty..." he whispered with parched lips. "The protocol for their activation stipulates only one condition. Have... have you detected the awakening of the Ancient Magical Empire? Has Ravernal returned, as those dragons prophesied?"

  Lucius smiled bitterly.

  "If only... Then everything would be simpler. We would know the enemy," he allowed himself to frown for a second, and this emotion made his face frighteningly old. "No, Hyrkan. The beacons are silent for now. But we draw our sword not against the past. It is all because of those damned mechanical demons from the West... Gra-Valkas has left us no choice."

  Hyrkan Parpe froze, stopping the cup short of his mouth.

  For the last few weeks, he had been in the "Deep Archive"—a shielded underground complex where the unstable mana-reactors of the Ancients were studied. Manacomms didn't work there; news didn't reach there. He had surfaced only upon receiving the Imperial order.

  Of course, scraps of rumors about a conflict in the west had reached him. About some "iron nation" attacking Leifor. But for Hyrkan, accustomed to thinking in categories of millennia and global magical currents, this was unimportant noise. Mice scurrying in a sandbox. So dirty savages are letting each other's blood on the outskirts of the ecumene—to hell with them. The Empire is eternal, the Empire is indestructible.

  However, Lucius's dry, emotionless narrative that followed the question turned his world upside down.

  The destruction of the Zero Magic Fleet. Burning Cartalpas. The impotence of magic. The technological monster, Atlastar, which laughed at their magical barriers.

  Parpe's face slowly changed color—from a healthy flush to deathly pallor, and then—to a crimson red. A mixture of disbelief, denial, and then—heavy, suffocating anger. His country, the pinnacle of evolution, had been humiliated?

  The silence in the office became thick as jelly. Only the ticking of the mana-chronometer on the wall could be heard.

  The Emperor rose slowly, walked to the window, and, looking at the panorama of his capital, spoke quietly, almost in a whisper, but every word fell like a lead weight:

  "I want to grind them into dust, Hyrkan. All of them. Not just defeat them. I want to destroy the very concept of their existence so that others are discouraged. And therefore... begin the deployment of the Sky Ships. Both vessels."

  Parpe, without realizing it, reached for the cup that a silent shadow-maid had just filled. He lifted the porcelain and suddenly saw his hand. It was shaking finely, nastily. The cup hit the saucer.

  Clink.

  He clenched his fingers, forcing the tremor to subside. No, this wasn't fear of war. He had seen things scarier than cannons. It was the rage of a professional forced to use a microscope to hammer nails. And the fear of a keeper afraid of losing the treasure entrusted to him.

  He put the cup back down without taking a sip.

  Hyrkan's mind remained cold as the glaciers of the North, analyzing the order.

  The Department's balance sheet listed only seven sky fortresses—flying battleships of the "Pal Chimera" class—in deep preservation. These were not weapons. These were a "legacy"—surviving relics of the Ancient Magical Empire of Ravernal, miraculously restored from wreckage, technologies Mirishial could not reproduce.

  Seven units. Two hulls stripped for parts. Five—conditionally combat-ready, but requiring colossal mana expenditures to launch the anti-gravity cores. And not a single, not a single chance to build a new one if even one was lost.

  With his heart, he understood the Emperor. Pride demanded blood. He himself wanted to see the cities of these upstarts burn. The Empire must strike such a blow that the mere mention of Mirishial would evoke genetic horror in the descendants of Gra-Valkas for a thousand years to come.

  But with his mind... His mind rebelled.

  This is madness, Parpe thought, staring at the Sovereign's back. To throw a strategic, irreplaceable trump card against barbarians with mechanical toys? That's like spending an archmage's accumulator to light a cigarette. Expensive. Stupid. Criminal.

  And the main thing gnawing at him from the inside:

  And what if we are wrong? What if the dragons' prophecy is true? If we burn through the "Chimera" resource and lose them in battle with Gra-Valkas... and tomorrow the sky darkens for real? If the True Masters return, the sorcerous scum of Ravernal, what will we oppose them with? We will be left with only sticks and prayers.

  Second Civilized Region. Superpower Mu. Port City of Maekal.

  Residential District for Foreign Specialists.

  The door slammed so hard that the windowpanes rattled in their frames.

  "Don't go!.. I beg you!" the girl, flying into the hallway along with a gust of damp sea wind, threw herself around the young man's neck with such force that it seemed she wanted to knock him off his feet. "Don't leave me alone, Tyoma! Please!"

  Artyom, a fighter in the combined detachment of Russian "military consultants" (officially—a security officer for a logistics company), staggered but held his ground, catching this precious projectile smelling of rain and lavender.

  He gently pressed her against himself, feeling the fine, staccato trembling of her shoulders.

  "Why are you bawling, silly? Huh? Hush, my sweet... Hush, Laura," he whispered, stroking her wet, wind-tangled chestnut hair, soft as the most expensive silk of Mu.

  Looking into her huge, tear-stained emerald eyes, Artyom thought for the umpteenth time what a strange thing life was. He, a guy from near Ryazan who had gone through boot camp and signed a contract to pay off a mortgage, could never have imagined he would find happiness millions of light-years from home, in a world where airplanes looked like flying bookshelves. They met a year ago at that "Russian Bistro" opened by a sharp Moscow restaurateur on the waterfront. She had dropped a tray, staring at the "man from the stars," and he helped pick up the shards. And that was it. The soldier was a goner.

  "Papa called... when I was walking back from the market..." Laura began to speak incoherently, sobbing and smearing mascara across her cheeks without loosening her embrace. Her voice cracked. "He said... the 1st Fleet is leaving. Right now. His squadmates... they're preparing to sail. They say it's to war with those demons from Gra-Valkas. In the harbor... Tyoma, it's terrifying there. You can't move through the crowd. The whole city came to see them off. Women are crying, children are screaming. Karna... she just saw her husband off. He's on a cruiser... She came back white as chalk, sat on the doorstep, and she's howling..."

  She suddenly pulled away and saw what was lying on the sofa. Next to a neatly folded pile of Russian digital camouflage lay an open combat rucksack (a "raid pack"). Inside, assault rifle magazines glinted dully alongside a medkit and MREs.

  Laura's knees buckled.

  "And you... You're packing, too!" she poked a trembling finger at the backpack, and a fresh wave of hysteria washed over her completely. "You're leaving too! You're going to abandon me here, under the bombs!"

  "Hey now... Stop that," Artyom sighed heavily, scooped her up in his arms like a child, and carried her to the sofa, sitting down beside her. "Look at me. Laura, look me in the eyes. I'm not going anywhere. Do you hear me?"

  "Really?" she looked up at him with wet eyes full of hope and disbelief.

  "The truest truth. Word of a Russian officer... well, almost an officer," he smiled wryly, wiping the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. "We have different orders. We're staying here, in Maekal. We are the last line of defense. We will only engage in one scenario—if the enemy lands on this shore. Understand? I'm here to protect you, not to die at sea."

  "But why... why are you packing your backpack?"

  Artyom glanced at his "go-bag."

  "Just in case, babe. It's a habit. A soldier's kitbag should always be packed. So you aren't hunting for socks when the siren wails. Just maintaining order. Get it?"

  Laura sniffled and pressed her cheek against his chest, listening to the steady, calm beating of his heart. She felt a little better. The warmth of his body was the only island of safety in this world gone mad. She didn't let him go until evening came, clutching his t-shirt in a death grip, afraid that if she unclenched her hands, he would vanish into thin air.

  Artyom stroked her hair, but he was looking out the window facing the bay.

  His face was grim.

  Down there, a majestic and terrifying scene was unfolding.

  The ocean was black with ships and smoke. Leaving the port, its sirens blaring strenuously, the Main Fleet of Superpower Mu was weighing anchor. Not the "bright" and "clean" ships of Mirishial, but angular, soot-stained steel monsters of the industrial era.

  It was a force to be reckoned with.

  Five aircraft carriers with a forest of biplanes on their decks.

  Four dreadnought battleships spewing clouds of coal soot.

  Eight heavy armored cruisers.

  Twelve light cruisers and sixteen destroyers.

  And a long tail of supply transports.

  Fifty pennants in total. Fifty steel boxes packed with tens of thousands of men—someone's fathers, husbands, and brothers.

  Artyom watched as this armada formed into cruising order, sailing off into the sunset to meet the Atlastar. He knew the specs of his assault rifle. And he knew (from classified briefings) the specs of those who were waiting for this fleet out there, beyond the horizon.

  "Poor bastards..." he thought with a soldier's melancholic pity. "You have no idea what kind of meat grinder the politicians have sent you into. Farewell."

  The fleet disappeared into the gray haze, dissolving into it like a ghostly vision of a bygone era, destined to become fuel for a war that would change this world forever.