The Russian Federation, Moscow. Autumn

  A leaden sky hung over Moscow like heavy, wet broadcloth. A cold autumn wind, chilling to the bone, drove damp fallen leaves down the deserted streets. The Kremlin towers barely loomed through the gray veil of fog, their ruby stars looking dim and lifeless. But in one of the inconspicuous courtyards of Zamoskvorechye, lost among gray panel high-rises, a different atmosphere reigned. Behind the heavily tinted windows of a black van parked in the shadow of rusting garages, the air was saturated with tension—thick and heavy, like the premonition of an inevitable catastrophe.

  "Master, twenty minutes remaining," a gaunt man sitting in the front seat said quietly, almost inaudibly.

  His companion, a figure in a black cloak with a deep hood, slowly opened his eyes. His gaze was empty, like a bottomless abyss—devoid of emotion but filled with a cold, almost mechanical resolve.

  "Status?" his voice was low and flat, like the sound of stones grinding together.

  "Ready," the gaunt man replied. His eyes—bright red, like glowing coals—flashed momentarily in the gloom.

  "The portal will remain stable for no more than three seconds. As soon as it opens, you must act."

  The hooded man nodded silently. He closed his eyes again. There was work ahead. Fast. Quiet. And very, very dirty.

  A series of short, dry clicks rang out inside the van—the sound of rounds being chambered. Six figures in identical black hooded tactical suits moved in sync, checking their weapons with ritualistic focus. Their movements were honed to automatic precision, every gesture calculated. Their "Master" picked up a worn AKS-74U, running his fingers over the cold metal of the receiver. He checked the bolt, attached a Bakelite magazine with mechanical precision, engaged the safety, and carefully placed the weapon on his lap. Then, methodically, one by one, he checked the remaining magazines in his chest rig—six of them, each holding thirty rounds of 5.45mm ammunition. Nodding with satisfaction, he scanned his men. Their faces, hidden by the shadows of their hoods, were unreadable, but their red eyes burned ominously in the darkness.

  "You know what to do," he said in broken but distinct Russian. "Fast. Clean. No witnesses."

  The van moved off silently. Picking up speed, the vehicle slipped out of the narrow courtyard. Within minutes, it was speeding along the nearly empty night embankment of the Moscow River, heading toward the very heart of the city. Dark hulks of buildings flashed past the windows, their reflections shimmering in the black water. Absolute silence reigned inside, broken only by the faint hum of tires on wet asphalt. Every person seated knew their role. They were not just soldiers following orders. They were fanatics, believing that their actions this night would change the course of history for two worlds. Their target was not merely sabotage. Their target was the heart of Russia.

  State Historical Museum. 7:45 AM.

  The morning on Red Square was deceptively quiet. The tourists hadn't packed the cobblestones yet, and the few locals were rushing to work, casting quick glances at the Kremlin walls. A handful of people were strolling near the Historical Museum. None of them paid attention to the black minibus that, breaking every traffic rule in the book, came flying around the corner at high speed and screeched to a halt right at the entrance of the Okhotny Ryad subway station.

  "Move it! Go!" barked the Master, being the first to jump out of the vehicle.

  His team followed like a single organism. Six figures in black hoodies with eye slits moved with inhuman speed. In their hands were automatic weapons: compact AKS-74Us, a few AK-103s, and one guy with an RPK-16 light machine gun. They instantly spread out, taking control of the subway exits and the perimeter in front of the museum. Their movements were too fast, too fluid for normal humans.

  The beat cops saw them first. Two young officers, who had just been joking around in the smoking area yesterday, instinctively reached for their radios, but they were too slow. Short, nasty bursts from the assault rifles tore apart the morning silence. The 7.62mm bullets punched right through their body armor and knocked their lifeless bodies onto the wet cobblestones, painting them red. The third cop, a sergeant with the most experience, managed to draw his service pistol and fire two shots, but they were drowned out by a deafening roar. A high-explosive grenade from an under-barrel launcher slammed into the hood of the patrol car, turning it into a burning wreck. The blast wave threw the sergeant to the ground; his dying wheeze mixed with the roar of the flames.

  "Patrol Seven-Zero-Zero-One! Attack on Red Squ...cer down! Need immediate backup! I repeat, armed assault!" wheezed the fourth surviving patrolman into his radio. A piece of shrapnel had gone through his shoulder, and his arm hung uselessly.

  Pressing himself against the cold granite wall of the GUM department store, he tried to stop shaking and reload his pistol.

  "Seven-Zero-Zero-One, copy that! SWAT and National Guard teams are already rolling! Hold tight!" a distant, almost unreal voice replied over the airwaves.

  Hold tight... the patrolman thought with a bitter smirk, looking at the six demons armed to the teeth heading toward the museum. To hell with this job...

  He raised his pistol again. He knew he was going to die. But he would die doing his duty.

  Meanwhile, the hooded figures burst into the museum. The massive oak doors, locked for the night, shattered into splinters from a single kick by the fighter with the machine gun.

  One of the attackers, the tallest one, spun around and fired a long burst into the ceiling. Bullets chipped away century-old plaster before finding their target—a giant crystal chandelier from tsarist times. With a pitiful ring and a crash, it fell onto the polished marble floor, shattering into millions of sparkling shards.

  "GET DOWN! ANYONE MOVES, YOU DIE!" he roared in broken but distinct Russian. There wasn't just a threat in his voice, but an absolute, inhuman confidence in his right to kill.

  Scared to death, the few early morning visitors and museum staff dropped to the floor screaming, covering their heads with their hands. The strangers ignored them and moved deeper. Their goal wasn't the Hall of Fame. Their goal was something hidden deep beneath it.

  The visitors—a few early tourists, a couple of school groups, and the stunned staff—started screaming. Panic, wild and primal, exploded the majestic silence of the main hall. People rushed toward the massive oak doors like a maddened herd, knocking each other over, trampling the fallen. A young girl, a student in a bright jacket, tripped over a dropped bag and fell. Her desperate scream was drowned out by the thunder of hundreds of feet. An elderly tour guide in a uniform jacket instinctively tried to shield the crying schoolchildren with his body, but his helpless voice was lost in the chaos.

  But behind the doors, the rest of the group was already waiting, blocking the exits. Six barrels spit death at the same time. Long, merciless bursts mowed through the dense, huddled crowd like a scythe going through a field of wheat. The heavy bullets punched right through bodies, shattered bones, and ricocheted off marble columns, sparking and leaving bloody pockmarks. Some died instantly with looks of surprise on their faces; others fell, choking on their own blood; still others were simply trampled by the crazed mob, which turned in panic and rushed back deeper into the museum.

  Hot, sticky blood mixed with crystal shards and marble dust, turning the floor into a slippery, crimson skating rink. Piercing screams of agony, the crying of children, and the moans of the wounded merged into a single, unbearable howl. And above all this chaos, drowning it out like a clap of thunder, rang the booming, emotionless voice of their Master:

  "Find the Key Medallion! IT IS HERE! Use the mana-detectors!"

  Three of the hooded figures took off like shadows, moving with unnatural speed. They vanished into the dark, echoing corridors of the museum. In their hands were strange devices that looked like bracelets with dimly glowing crystals. They emitted a low, vibrating hum, scanning the area for the slightest spikes of magical energy. These artifacts were relics of the ancient Ravernal Empire, capable of finding traces of magic hidden from even the most powerful archmages of this world.

  And they were leading their new masters straight to the target.

  Hall of Ancient Artifacts. 7:50 AM.

  In one of the distant, echoing halls, amidst display cases filled with tarnished bronze statuettes, clay tablets, and ancient coins, Elena Markova, a junior researcher, was hiding. Her heart hammered so loudly and hollowly in the oppressive silence that it felt like its beat could be heard even over the bursts of automatic fire coming from the lobby. She cowered in a dark niche behind a heavy oak cabinet, clutching a folder of documents she had planned to study that morning against her chest. Her blonde hair stuck to her cold, sweaty forehead, and her hands, gripping the sharp corner of the folder, trembled so violently that the paper rustled softly. Elena clamped her hand over her mouth, terrified to make a sound. She watched as one of the "hooded ones" burst into the hall. He didn't move like a human—he moved smoothly, silently, almost gliding over the floor, and his red eyes, devoid of pupils, scanned the room like the scanners of a Terminator from an old movie.

  Two months ago, that very medallion had been delivered to their department. It was found during joint excavations with the Mirishials in the ruins of the ancient city of Kalam. The Mirishials, with all their magic, couldn't study it and happily handed it over to the "scientific barbarians" from Russia. The medallion was strange: cold black metal covered in spiral patterns that no one could decipher, with a large, cloudy crystal in the center that looked like frozen blood. Professor Kovalev, her supervisor who worked with the artifact, said the patterns resembled the ancient scripts of the Ravernal Empire. He even joked that the medallion was "alive" because the metal sometimes became warm to the touch. Elena had laughed back then. But now, looking at the red-eyed killer, she realized with horror that it wasn't a joke.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The hooded one walked slowly through the hall, leading the way with his eerie bracelet. The device emitted a quiet, low, vibrating hum, and the crystal on it pulsed dimly in time with his steps. When he passed the other display cases, the hum didn't change. But when he approached the specific one where the medallion was displayed, the hum turned into a piercing, almost painful shriek.

  The hooded one stopped abruptly. He didn't look at the other exhibits. He was looking only at the medallion. He had come for it.

  With a crunch that made Elena's blood run cold, he smashed the thick armored glass with the butt of his rifle. Shards rained down onto the marble floor. He reached out and grabbed the artifact. Elena squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for a gunshot, praying that he wouldn't notice her, that the noise of the battle outside would distract him.

  And then, somewhere very close, in the adjacent corridor, a deafening explosion rang out, shaking the walls and bringing plaster down from the ceiling. It was followed by a storm of automatic fire. The sound of the shooting was different—sharper, choppier, more professional. Special Forces.

  The hooded one turned around, his red eyes narrowing. He hissed something viciously in an unknown, guttural language, shoved the medallion into a pouch on his chest, and dashed toward the exit, leaving behind a ringing silence, broken glass, and a small woman in a dark niche, trembling with fear and sudden, timid hope.

  Main Entrance Hallway. 07:52 AM.

  The FSB Alpha Special Forces team arrived faster than the terrorists had expected. Armored Tigr vehicles and futuristic Falkatus assault carriers blocked all approaches to Red Square, their sirens wailing. Heavy quadcopters buzzed over the cobblestones, beaming a high-resolution feed back to headquarters.

  Captain Alexey Dalanov, the commander of the assault team, studied the building layout on a tactical tablet. His face was tense.

  The intel from Central was short and terrifying: "Unknowns, super-fast reaction, possible non-material shields." Anomaly. That word made him shudder internally.

  "Team, go! Assault!" he ordered.

  The first-floor windows shattered. Flashbangs and gas grenades flew inside like black wasps. Bright flashes and a deafening roar turned the majestic lobby into hell for a split second. A smoke screen followed the grenades, and the operators rushed in like ghosts.

  The "Shield Man"—the point man—blocked the main hallway. Several bursts of gunfire hit his heavy armored shield, sending sparks flying, but he moved forward step by step like a tank.

  "Group of 'hooded ones' in the hall to the right! Engaging!"

  A fighter with a GM-94 thermobaric grenade launcher fired a shot into the doorway. A dull thud—and eerie, inhuman screams drifted from the hall.

  But the "hooded ones" weren't the type to panic. One of them dashed out of a side corridor and threw something small and dark toward the Special Forces unit.

  "Grenade!" shouted the Shield Man, covering the group.

  Shrapnel tore through Kevlar with a crunching sound; one of the fighters fell with a short, stifled cry, clutching his leg.

  "Contact at twelve o'clock!" another fighter yelled, opening fire with his AK-12. But the "hooded one" moved too fast, dodging bullets with an inhuman, blurry speed, like a phantom. He wasn't just fast. He was unnatural.

  The "Master" watched the battle from the depths of the museum, standing at the entrance to the vault. His red eyes glittered coldly, and his lips curled in a contemptuous sneer. Noisy. Slow. Just humans, he thought. The Key Medallion was close. His "hand," made of hundreds of intertwined, living blades, twitched impatiently. According to their ancient texts, this artifact, created by the mages of the Ravernal Empire, was a key. A key to the return of their masters, the Light-Winged Ones—not counting the Beacons—but working only one way and only once. It was the key to a new Golden Age.

  One of the Alpha fighters separated from the group and approached him.

  "Freeze! Hands behind..."

  He didn't finish. The "Master" didn't dash forward. He simply appeared next to him. One moment he was thirty feet away, the next—point-blank. His blade-hand took the Special Forces soldier's head off with one short, almost lazy movement.

  "DAMMIT!" the dead man's partner screamed, opening fire. But the "Master" was back in the shadows; bullets uselessly struck sparks from the marble walls.

  "Raven! This is Falcon! We have a KIA! The enemy... he's teleporting! I repeat, teleporting!" the fighter shouted into the radio.

  The answer came from where it was least expected. The "Master" appeared right behind Dalanov.

  "I am already here," he almost sang, and his blade-hand passed through the titanium plate of the body armor without the slightest resistance, piercing the Captain's chest.

  Dalanov coughed up blood. He looked down and saw black, smoking blades sticking out of his chest. Surprisingly, there was almost no pain. Only cold.

  "You're coming... with me... you freak," he wheezed, and the steely will of a commander flared up again in his eyes, momentarily clouded by pain. His hand, which was barely obeying him anymore, unclenched. The pin of an RGN impact grenade, which he had held ready this whole time—the final argument for a worst-case scenario—fell from it.

  The "Master" looked with surprise at the small, hissing "iron turtle" at his feet. He only had time to curse in his ancient, guttural tongue...

  "Stupid, insignificant human," he hissed. "Do you think this pathetic firework..."

  Boom.

  Deafening, tearing eardrums apart. The shockwave threw him against the wall with such force that the marble facing cracked. It blew his leg off below the knee.

  An agonizing, inhuman howl, full not so much of pain as of rage and surprise, echoed from the museum vaults. But he was still alive. Propping himself up on his remaining hand, bleeding thick, black blood, he tried to stand up.

  "Contact! Don't let him get away! Finish the scum off!" commanded the leader of the second Alpha assault team, bursting out of a side corridor.

  Dozens of barrels opened fire to kill. A lead storm rained down on the "Master's" body. 5.45mm and 7.62mm bullets bit into his body, tearing flesh, crushing bones, turning him into a bloody, twitching sieve. But he still held on. Through the stream of blood gushing from his mouth, he slowly, with almost ritual majesty, raised his head, and a terrible, bloody grin appeared on his mutilated, barely recognizable face.

  There was no hatred left in his red eyes. Only the triumph of a fanatic committing his final, main act of faith.

  "For... the Mage-Emperor..." he wheezed.

  His body began to glow. A bright, unnatural blue light radiated from within, breaking through hundreds of bullet wounds.

  "CEASE FIRE! FALL BACK!" screamed the team leader, instinctively realizing that something terrible was happening.

  But it was already too late.

  A bright, absolutely soundless flash flooded everything around. And then came the explosion. It wasn't an explosion of gunpowder or TNT. It was a wave of pure, concentrated annihilation. It vaporized everything within a thirty-foot radius. The Special Forces soldiers, their armor, their weapons—everything turned into a cloud of superheated steam, leaving only charred, dark shadows on the walls where they had stood.

  The museum walls, covered in cracks, melted like wax. The air filled with the sharp, suffocating smell of ozone, burnt metal, and vaporized flesh.

  A dead, deafening, almost cosmic silence followed. The battle was over. But there was no victory in it. Only horror and the realization that they had faced an enemy for whom death is just another weapon.

  Moscow-24 TV Studio. Evening of the same day.

  The studio was bathed in the cold light of the spotlights. Irina Solovyova, one of the country's top anchors, sat at the desk. Her face was pale, but her voice remained professionally steady, even though notes of deep grief showed through.

  Good evening. This special news broadcast is dedicated to the tragedy that shook Moscow and all of Russia this morning. A group of unknown militants committed a terrorist act of unprecedented brutality in the very heart of our capital, at the State Historical Museum. According to the latest data, one hundred and twenty-three people have died, seventeen of them children from a school field trip...

  Drone footage flashed on the screen behind her: the smoking, blackened fa?ade of the museum, blown-out windows, shattered display cases, and stretchers carrying bodies covered in black bags. Rescuers, SWAT teams, and investigators in white suits swarmed the area.

  Among the dead are civilians, police patrol officers who took the first hit, and six operators from the FSB's Alpha Group, including the team leader, Hero of Russia, Captain Alexey Dalanov... The President of the Russian Federation has expressed his deepest condolences to the families of the victims and declared a three-day national period of mourning...

  Her voice trembled for a moment.

  One of the survivors, junior museum researcher Elena Markova, found the strength to speak about what happened.

  Elena appeared on the screen, wrapped in a silver thermal blanket. Her eyes were wide with shock.

  They... they just started shooting. No warning... People were running, screaming, and they just... fired. In the backs. At the children. One of them, with red eyes... he was looking for something. Some... medallion...

  Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands. The image changed again. The whole country, holding its breath, listened, watched, and understood: this was no ordinary terrorist attack. This was a declaration of war. And the enemy in this war was cruel, merciless, and perhaps not entirely human.

  The camera returned to Irina Solovyova. Her face was tense.

  Experts are already calling this the most brutal and bizarre terrorist attack in modern Russian history. The Investigative Committee has opened a criminal case. The main theory is an attempt to seize a valuable artifact, but officials are not giving comments yet...

  The broadcast was interrupted. The Director of the FSB, General of the Army Viktor Chernov, appeared on the screen. His face was gloomy as a storm cloud.

  We will do everything to find the guilty, wherever they may hide. All operational services are on high alert. Not a single one of these monsters will escape retribution. I ask citizens to remain calm.

  But there was no calm. Across the country, from Kaliningrad in the west to Vladivostok in the east, a high-level terror alert was put into effect. Patrols with automatic rifles appeared at airports and train stations; K-9 units with dogs flooded the subways.

  And one more thing... from hundreds of messages analyzed by experts, one common, terrifying detail surfaced, which they were still afraid to say aloud in official reports. Red eyes. All the survivors, to a man, spoke of the unnaturally red eyes of the attackers. The internet was already boiling with theories—from secret combat stimulants to demonic possession.

  The only good news announced by the Investigative Committee at the end of the day was that the terrorists apparently failed to achieve their goal. The very medallion they were looking for was completely destroyed in the final suicide explosion. But that was little comfort. The country was plunging into mourning. And a silent question hung in the air: Who are they? And will they come back?