Russian Federation. Sverdlovsk Oblast, near Yekaterinburg.

  A year and a half after the Transfer, in the Urals, the historical industrial heart of Russia, the world's first Academies of Synthesis had sprung up like mushrooms after rain. These unique scientific research centers were designed to be the melting pot where the magic of the New World would be fused with the technology of the 21st century. These academic cities, built in record time, became beacons of hope for all of humanity, stranded in an alien world. The project's funding was colossal: resources flowed not only from the federal budget but also from giants like Rosatom, Rostec, and private corporations like TerraRosgroup, whose leaders understood perfectly—whoever mastered hybrid technologies first would rule this new world.

  The Ural branch, situated on a vast, previously empty territory, was a true city of the future. Ultramodern educational buildings of glass and concrete housed laboratories capable of withstanding both a failed alchemical experiment and a malfunction in a hadron collider. Comfortable residential buildings for the teaching staff were surrounded by gardens where terrestrial birch trees grew alongside glowing elven trees. Enormous multi-story dormitories stood ready to accommodate up to ten thousand students. Everything—from sports complexes to quiet parks—was created for one purpose: to give the best minds of two worlds the opportunity to create, without being distracted by mundane trifles.

  The academy's leadership was built on a unique principle of a duumvirate: the scientific direction was headed by a gray-haired academician from the Russian Academy of Sciences (RAN), while the magical direction was led by an invited archmage from Qua-Toyne, an elf with three hundred years of experience. They, like two wings of a single bird, were to guide this incredible project to new heights.

  "Headhunters" from Russian corporations and special services scoured all allied countries—from Qua-Toyne to Fenn—in search of talent like bloodhounds on a scent. They were interested not only in the magically gifted but, more importantly, in those who were capable of thinking outside the box and were open to new knowledge. The most promising fields, such as "artifactonics," "runology," "applied alchemy," "biomancy" (life magic), and "genetic modeling" (breeding), were instantly filled to capacity with the best specialists and the most capable students.

  On the very first day of classes, the academy's auditoriums turned into arenas for intellectual gladiatorial combat. In one hall, a gray-bearded dwarven artifactor, spittle flying, argued with a professor from the Bauman Moscow State Technical University about the superiority of runic programming over binary code.

  "Your electronics are a fragile, finicky toy!" he boomed, slamming his knuckles on the table. "One good magical pulse, and all your 'iPhones' will turn into useless pieces of glass! A rune, carved on steel, is eternal! It draws its energy from the very fabric of the world!"

  "Eternal, until some orc smashes it with a hammer," the engineer calmly parried. "Your rune is a fixed algorithm. My microprocessor, however, is capable of performing billions of operations per second, adapting to any task. Let's think instead about how to integrate your rune into my circuit to create a self-repairing and battery-independent power source."

  In the neighboring auditorium, an equally heated debate was raging between life mages from Qua-Toyne and surgeons from the Sklifosovsky Institute.

  "You are barbarians!" an indignant young elf, a life mage, exclaimed. "You cut into living flesh, violating its integrity! Any illness, any wound can be healed by directing the flow of life energy, restoring the body's harmony!"

  "Harmony?" a gray-haired professor of surgery raised an eyebrow ironically. "Tell me about harmony to a patient with stage-four cancer or a shattered bone where infection has set in. You, esteemed colleagues, only treat a person's superficial wounds, not the internal damage, without knowing the first thing about anatomy. We, on the other hand, treat the disease. We remove the tumor, clean the wound of necrotic tissue, and administer antibiotics that kill specific bacteria. We work on a micro-level that is inaccessible to your magic. But…" he paused, "…if we combine our approaches… If you can accelerate tissue regeneration after I have removed all the affected cells, we could put people back together from pieces. Literally."

  In the chemistry labs, pharmacists from Russian research institutes and alchemists from the Thearchy of Gahara, who had initially eyed each other with suspicion, were enthusiastically exchanging experiences within an hour. The Russians showed the alchemists the basics of organic chemistry, explaining how to synthesize complex molecules, while they, in turn, demonstrated how to change the very atomic structure of matter with the simplest of spells, turning lead not into gold, but into rare and useful isotopes.

  And in the bioengineering complex, which resembled a zoo from another world, breeders from the Timiryazev Academy and mages specializing in creature breeding in Louria were studying the genome of a wyvern.

  "Phenomenal!" a Russian geneticist exclaimed, looking at a 3D model of DNA on the screen. "Their ability to generate fire is not magic in its purest form. It's a highly complex biochemical process! Special glands produce two components that ignite upon mixing and contact with oxygen. If we could isolate this gene and insert it, for example, into a cow…"

  "Then we'd get a fire-breathing cow that would burn down the farm," his colleague from Qua-Toyne grunted. "We've spent centuries learning not only to enhance but also to control these abilities. For that, you need special runes of subjugation, woven into the genome at the embryonic stage."

  After these first, tumultuous, and incredibly productive debates, all the professors and scientific staff, like members of a suddenly found, multinational, and multispecies family, gathered in the huge assembly hall for the opening ceremony. When everyone was seated, a tall, bald man in a strict black suit, with a strong-willed and focused face, approached the podium. The Russian specialists greeted him with a thunderous, respectful applause, which was immediately picked up by the foreign guests. Waiting for silence, the man placed his hands on the podium, and his voice, even, confident, and full of hidden power, filled the hall:

  "Hello, comrades, colleagues, and dear guests of our country!"

  The man swept the hall with a heavy, penetrating gaze. The silence became absolute.

  "I would like to thank you from the bottom of my heart for gathering here. Each of you is the best in your field. Each of you is a unique bearer of knowledge. And today, all of us, together, stand on the threshold of a new era," he paused for a moment, letting the words sink into the minds of the audience, then coughed into his fist and continued with greater force: "My name is Mikhail Anatolyevich Sukhov. In the past, I was the Vice-Rector for Research at Novosibirsk State University, and now, I am the Rector of this academy for the scientific and technical direction."

  He paused again, and his face, previously stern, softened.

  "Today, our academy officially begins its work. Before us lie tasks of colossal, almost unimaginable importance. This is not just about research. This is a matter of survival and prosperity for our entire civilization in this new world, full of both wonders and deadly threats. We are to decipher the very laws of this universe, understand the nature of magic, and integrate it into our scientific paradigm. To create hybrid technologies that will give us not just an advantage, but a guarantee that our children and grandchildren will live in peace and security. To create new medicines, new sources of energy, new materials. This path will be long and difficult. We will face disputes, mistakes, dead ends, and perhaps even dangers. But looking at this hall, at your intelligent, enthusiastic eyes, I am absolutely certain—we will succeed. I wish us all luck, patience, and great discoveries. And now, I am proud to invite to the podium my colleague, friend, and your second leader in the magical direction."

  Mikhail Anatolyevich stepped away from the podium and, with a broad, respectful gesture, invited a tall, stately elf in a blue and white robe embroidered with silver runes to the microphone, whose appearance radiated the wisdom and tranquility of an ancient forest. The hall erupted in applause again, but this time it was different—in it was heard not only enthusiasm, but also a deep respect for a representative of an ancient, powerful force. The elf, waiting for silence, bowed with a grace honed over centuries.

  "Greetings, esteemed men and women of science and magic," his voice, soft and melodious, flowed like a stream, but in it was a hidden power. "As my friend, Mikhail Anatolyevich, so graciously introduced me, I am the Rector of this academy for the magical branch. My name is Atorus Van Toris, formerly the head of the Council of Knowledge of the White Tree in the principality of Qua-Toyne. Like my colleague, I see in our union not just an opportunity, but the only true path forward. For millennia, magic and science in our worlds have walked different roads, often looking at each other with mistrust and contempt. But today, these roads have converged. May the steel of your engineers strengthen the enchantments of our artifactors. May the wisdom of our life mages guide the scalpel of your surgeons. Together, we can achieve what was unimaginable for each of us alone. I wish you success in uncovering the great mysteries of the universe! Thank you for your attention."

  Atorus bowed again and, to thunderous, unceasing applause, stepped away from the podium, leaving behind a sense of not just wisdom, but of a great, unifying hope.

  After the solemn speeches, a more practical part began: the introduction of the heads of the newly formed faculties and departments—the same dwarves, elves, professors, and engineers who, just an hour ago, were ready to tear each other's beards out in arguments, and now shyly bowed to the applause. Then, the first closed meetings began, where the two rectors and the heads of the departments started discussing specific work plans for the coming year—from the development of runic processors to the creation of hybrid wheat varieties resistant to magical diseases.

  And on the next day, classes began. Countless streams of students—young, energetic men and women from Russia, serious elves from Qua-Toyne, sturdy beastmen from Topa, and proud warriors from Fenn, who had passed the most difficult selection tests—flowed like mountain streams into the auditoriums and laboratories to gain priceless knowledge and begin building a new, shared world. And so, a new era began—the era of synthesis.

  Russian Federation. Moscow. Secret laboratories of the National Research Center "Kurchatov Institute" and the Institute of Ethnology and Anthropology of the Russian Academy of Sciences.

  While engineers and mages argued about the future in the gleaming auditoriums of the Academies of Synthesis, another, no less important work was being carried out in the quiet, strictly guarded laboratories of Moscow, Novosibirsk, and the closed scientific cities—the methodical and ruthless decoding of the very code of this new world. Leading Russian scientists—geneticists, anthropologists, theologians, and zoologists—with the feverish excitement of pioneers who had stumbled upon an untouched treasure trove, analyzed the samples that flowed in from the new continents.

  In the subterranean biolab of the Kurchatov Institute, shielded from any form of radiation, amidst the soft hum of centrifuges and sequencers, Professor Lebedev, a world authority in the field of paleogenetics, displayed a three-dimensional DNA model on a massive holographic screen.

  "The results, colleagues, are not just astonishing. They are upending our very understanding of evolution itself," he said, addressing a mixed group of government officials, General Staff generals, and mega-corporation directors. "Elves, dwarves, so-called halflings—they are, without a doubt, Homo sapiens. Their genome is 99.9% identical to ours. We have found the genes responsible for their unique traits. In elves, it's a complex of genes that radically slows the process of cellular aging; their telomere activity hardly decreases with age. In dwarves, it's genes responsible for increased bone density and incredible resistance to toxins, including alcohol, which makes them ideal miners… and drinking buddies."

  A restrained chuckle went through the room.

  "But the beastmen…" Lebedev displayed another, much more complex DNA helix on the screen, "…they are a completely different story. Their genome is a flawlessly assembled hybrid of human and animal genes. Feline, wolfish, ursine traits are woven into their structure so harmoniously that it cannot be the result of millions of years of natural evolution. This is the highest level of genetic engineering, conducted, it seems, at the embryonic stage thousands of years ago. Someone in this world's past possessed technologies that we, with our CRISPR/Cas9, can only dream of. We have already isolated the genes responsible for their heightened nocturnal hearing, phenomenal regeneration, and sense of smell. The potential for military medicine and the creation of super soldiers is colossal. But who was this ancient 'Dr. Moreau'? For now, that is the main mystery."

  Simultaneously, work was underway at the Institute of Ethnology and Anthropology.

  The Patriarch of Moscow and All Rus' sank heavily into his carved oak armchair. For nights on end, he had barely slept. Before him on the table lay not just a report, but a document capable of shaking the very foundations of faith—a thick, bound volume from the Synodal Department for External Church Relations, titled "On the Theological Foundations of the Mission to the Otherworld and Dialogue with Non-Human Civilizations."

  Nearby, on a laptop screen, video files played silently, exuding an aura that was both fantastical and sacred: a sharp-eared elven priest in white robes, raising his hands to the sun; a mighty beastman, reverently bowing his head before a portable iconostasis; a dwarven master, examining the gilt frame of a field icon with professional delight.

  But that was not the main thing. The central part of the report was a full transcript of conversations between a military chaplain, Archpriest Vasily Volkov, and the religious leaders of the Kingdom ofTopa. The Patriarch reread one of the dialogues, which had taken place in the dilapidated temple of Tormeus, over and over.

  "...And like any gift—like a knife—it can be used for good, to cut bread, or for evil," Father Vasily was concluding his thought. "It all depends on what is in the heart of a man. Or an elf."

  Ellarion, the high priest, was silent for a long time, then quietly spoke, looking at the Russian priest as if seeing right through him.

  "Our most ancient legends say that when the world was on the brink of ruin from a great evil, the nameless Goddess of fertility and the elves cried out for help. And then, from the heavens, the Emissaries of God appeared. They came in steel chariots that roared like thunder, and their symbol was a Scarlet Star. They spoke a language very similar to yours, but harsher. They brought fire and steel to our enemies and helped us raise the Wall…"

  The elven priest leaned forward, his voice dropping to almost a whisper.

  "But they denied their sacred nature. They told our ancestors that there are no gods. A strange thing for messengers of God to say, don't you think?"

  The Patriarch froze, his fingers digging into the arms of his chair. A Scarlet Star. A five-pointed star. In the mind of any Russian, especially his, that symbol was seared with fire and blood. The symbol of the persecution of the Church. The sign of a god-defying power that had destroyed thousands of churches and priests. The sign of those who had declared their goal to be the building of paradise on earth without God.

  And this symbol… here… was a sacred relic?

  A sign of saviors, sent by God?

  What was this? A diabolical temptation? A mockery so sophisticated that the mind refused to comprehend it? "God writes straight with crooked lines,"... but to this extent? To use as His hammer those who had proclaimed their goal to be the destruction of His House?

  He turned to the next page of the report—an analytical note from the SVR and Professor Zakharov from the Institute of Ethnology. The dry facts confirmed the elf's words. The main religious holiday of many peoples—the "Day of the Rebirth of Light." A celebration of the saviors' arrival under the sign of a scarlet star five thousand years ago. Mention of a sacred forest in Qua-Toyne where something left behind by these "emissaries" was kept. The scientists were at a loss: another Transfer? An alternate history of Earth? An unknown civilization that had coincidentally chosen this symbol?

  But for the Patriarch, this was not a scientific puzzle. It was a matter of faith.

  And suddenly, a terrifying and majestic picture began to form in his mind. Not a mistake. Not a mockery. But Providence.

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  The first time, He had sent atheists. A force without faith. A hammer without a cross. They had completed their task and left, leaving behind only a symbol and a legend. They were an instrument.

  And now… He had called upon us. Russia. A power that had rediscovered its faith.

  This was not a repetition. This was the next phase. A correction. The first time, only Strength was shown. Now, it was time to show Strength and Truth.

  A tremendous task lay before the Church. Russia was not just a superpower in this new world. It was the second act in a Divine drama of salvation.

  He looked at the icon of the Savior and crossed himself.

  "Thy will be done," he whispered. "And may we understand Thy ways…"

  This dialogue became the basis for a secret circular sent to all dioceses. But among the ordinary faithful in Russia, there was disarray.

  In the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, after the Sunday service, parishioners were animatedly discussing the latest news.

  "Did you see on the television? Those… beast-people… with tails, and ears… And those elves? It's the work of the devil, surely," one elderly woman whispered to another.

  "Now, now, Klavdiya," a young deacon who had overheard the conversation gently chided her. "Do they have souls? They do. And their appearance… the Lord is diverse in His creations.

  Remember the words of the Apostle Peter: 'God is no respecter of persons, but in every nation he that feareth him, and worketh righteousness, is accepted with him.' It is not the appearance that matters, but what is in the heart. And who are we to judge the ways of the Lord, and the instruments He chooses to carry out His will?"

  The Institute of Ethnology, once again.

  Professor Zakharov cleared his throat.

  "This dialogue, as you can understand, had enormous consequences. The official position, already approved by the Synod, states: 'Magic as another form of physical law, given by God.' This allowed us to avoid a religious conflict."

  "But the most astonishing discovery," Zakharov continued, changing the slide, "was that for many peoples of the new world, their main religious holiday falls on the same time as our Easter. They call it the Day of the Rebirth of Light, a symbol of their supreme deity sending saviors to fight the darkness five thousand years ago. The symbol of their ancestors' victory over that ancient darkness is..."

  He showed the final image. Carved on a stone was a five-pointed, crimson star.

  "For them, this is a sacred sign," the professor concluded. "When our helicopters with red stars appeared over Tormeus, or even earlier during the war with Louria, for them it was the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy. They are still convinced that we are those same 'messengers,' returned to save the world once again."

  "There's also talk that the government is preparing an expedition to the sacred forest in Qua-Toyne, where something that belonged to the messengers is supposedly located, but this information may not be accurate."

  For the atheists, the scientists, and ordinary people alike, this became yet another mystery: was there another Transfer in Earth's past? Or was it a different country with a similar symbol? Or, perhaps, a USSR from another world?

  The puzzle was yet to be solved.

  Meanwhile, in the paleontological museum, another puzzle was being studied—the land birds.

  "This is not a bird," the paleontologist said confidently, pointing his scalpel at the structure of the pelvic bones on the dissection table. "This is a non-flying theropod. An incredibly resilient creature. It can run for almost a full day without rest at speeds of up to 25 miles per hour. The leg muscles are just a bundle of steel cables. The perfect mode of transportation for a world without asphalt. We've already decoded their genome. 'RosAgroTekh' is planning to start a cloning program. Just imagine: a courier service on dinosaurs. Logistics in remote regions will be solved."

  Ordinary Russians, however, reacted to the wonders of the new world with a characteristic mix of pragmatism, humor, and fatalism. In one of her streams, the blogger Emily Jones was interviewing a dwarven blacksmith in Qua-Toyne.

  "Tell me, is it true that you can drink for weeks and not get drunk?" she asked with American directness.

  "What's there to drink? Your vodka is like water to us," the dwarf boomed. "Now, our mountain ale, brewed on lava water—that's the good stuff!"

  That clip garnered fifty million views on the RuNet and spawned hundreds of memes. And so, step by step, Russian science and the Russian people were deconstructing this new world into its component parts. And with each new discovery, it became increasingly clear: they had found themselves in a world where myths were reality, and ancient legends held the keys to the technologies of the future.

  Russian Federation. St. Petersburg. City Center.

  The sun, lazily breaking through the gray St. Petersburg haze, bathed Nevsky Prospekt in a cold, diffused light. A group of forty beings, resembling a living illustration from a fantasy anthology, formed a tight, vibrant circle around their guide—a young man with a yellow armband. Passersby, St. Petersburg locals rushing about their business, slowed their pace and then stopped altogether, staring at this incredible procession with a mixture of astonishment and undisguised curiosity.

  Tall, slender elves from Qua-Toyne, with their aristocratic features and pointed ears peeking out from under long hair, stood alongside mighty beastmen from the Kingdom of Topa, whose wolfish and bearish features inspired a mix of admiration and slight fear. Nearby stood representatives from Quila—anthropomorphic cats and foxes who moved with grace even in the unfamiliar city crowd. There were humans too, but with long, twitching ears and fluffy tails—a sign of the mixed marriages common in Qua-Toyne. All of them—mages, scientists, and engineers who had come for a knowledge exchange as part of a cooperation program with the Academies of Synthesis—were now just tourists, eagerly absorbing the wonders and oddities of this new world.

  They craned their necks, like kids in a candy store. Everything amazed them: the electric buses gliding past with a quiet hiss, the simple yet functional clothing of the city dwellers, and their brisk, business-like pace.

  "Friends, your attention, please!" the guide called out loudly, trying to be heard over the noise of the avenue. "We've seen the Winter Palace. Now, to avoid the traffic jams, we will go down into the metro and quickly get to our hotel. Please, stay close to me."

  The crowd moved after him towards the escalator leading into the subterranean realm of the St. Petersburg subway, animatedly discussing what they had seen.

  "Such magnificence… the Winter Palace…" an elven architect, whose people were accustomed to harmony with nature rather than such monumental, overwhelming luxury, whispered reverently. "These paintings, these sculptures… It feels as if the soul of an entire era is captured in each hall. What a rich and tragic history they have."

  "I was paying attention to the weapons," a beastman warrior from Topa rumbled in a deep voice. He approached a dwarven artifactor, his military counterpart. "In the armory hall, behind glass, I saw magic muskets, almost like the ones the Parpaldians have. I asked the guide, 'Do you really put your latest weaponry on public display?' And you know what he told me?"

  "And what was that?" the dwarf asked with curiosity.

  "He said they were antiques. Weapons that are three hundred years old! THREE HUNDRED YEARS! Their soldiers fight with something entirely different. It's… unnerving."

  The subway train, arriving at the station, was a true marvel to them—a clattering steel dragon, obedient to the will of unknown forces. After reaching their hotel, they continued to share their impressions over dinner at a restaurant. The atmosphere was surprisingly warm and friendly.

  "To think, a country from beyond the Civilized Zones, and so developed," a diplomat in a kimono from the Thearchy of Gahara marveled.

  "I read in their history books," he interjected, "they had an emperor, just over a hundred years ago. They had a revolution and executed him. His entire family."

  "We shouldn't judge them for the cruelty of their past," a wise beastman shaman countered. "Just look at what they have built. Their cities, their culture… These people are always in a hurry, as if trying to outrun time itself."

  "That's for sure," the dwarf laughed. "I feel like a turtle next to them."

  New acquaintances were made during dinner. A life mage from Qua-Toyne engaged in a spirited debate with a human doctor from Topa about healing methods. An engineer from Fenn, whose people had a culture so similar to medieval Japan from the old world, questioned the guide about the peculiarities of their architecture.

  They promised to visit each other, to exchange knowledge. In that moment, in that St. Petersburg restaurant, they felt not like representatives of different, warring worlds, but as part of something new and unified.

  A few days later, filled with excursions, lectures, and heated debates, the guests, having gained indelible impressions, began to depart for their home countries. They took with them not only new knowledge but also a piece of the Russian soul—vast, incomprehensible, at times harsh, but always open to those who came in peace. The cultural exchange, which had begun so unexpectedly, had laid the first stone in the foundation of a new, shared future.

  Principality of Qua-Toyne. The Capital. Central Park of Culture and Unity.

  Two years after the start of full-scale cooperation, one of the most vibrant and beloved symbols of the alliance between Russia and Qua-Toyne became the Central Park, established on the site of former wastelands on the outskirts of the capital. Created as a joint project between Russian landscape designers from the Moscow Architectural Institute (MARCHI) and elven "gardeners of the soul," it had become a true marvel where two completely different civilizations harmoniously intertwined. Here, next to perfectly manicured lawns and smooth asphalt paths where electric scooters silently glided, grew giant mushrooms that glowed with a soft, phosphorescent light in the twilight, and birds of paradise with plumage shimmering in all the colors of the rainbow sang their songs. In the center of a large pond, where terrestrial swans swam lazily among fish with scales of pure mother-of-pearl, stood a monumental fountain in the style of socialist realism, depicting the clasped hands of a Russian worker, an elven maiden, and a dwarven blacksmith.

  The park became a favorite recreational spot, but its main jewel was the "Dragon Aviary"—a huge, fenced-off territory where various species of flying creatures from this world were kept in conditions as close to natural as possible. It was simultaneously a leading biological station of the Vavilov Institute of General Genetics and, perhaps, the most fantastic zoo in the universe.

  The main part of the aviary was occupied by wyverns. Behind multilayered armored glass, young individuals clumsily attempted to take flight from artificial cliffs, drawing laughter from the children.

  "Dad, why isn't it breathing fire?" a little boy in a cap with a Russian flag asked.

  "Because, son," his engineer father replied, "it's a complex biochemical process. Special glands produce two components that ignite upon contact with the air. In essence, it's a living binary multiple launch rocket system."

  "Dad, why is the glass so thick here?" the boy in the cap asked, knocking his knuckles against the transparent wall, which didn't even hum in response. "Can they break it?"

  "Theoretically, if they hit the same spot many times, they probably could," the engineer father answered, looking thoughtfully at a massive wyvern. "But the main thing is that they don't get out. You heard that story about the wyvern that showed up in Rostov last year, right?"

  The boy nodded, his eyes widening at the memory of the terrifying footage that had been played on all the news channels. His mother, standing nearby, involuntarily shivered.

  "I still don't understand how they even managed to smuggle it in," she said. "It's just horrible."

  "Money solves a lot of things, dear," the father sighed. "Some smugglers brought a young male across the border from one of the former Lourian duchies. They thought they'd sell it to some new Russian oligarch for a private zoo. But a wyvern isn't a tiger. It broke out of its container somewhere near Rostov-on-Don, and it was hungry and scared..."

  He fell silent, but everyone knew how that story ended. The wyvern, disoriented and aggressive, had gone on a rampage at a suburban farm and then attacked the M4 highway, setting everything around it on fire, hitting several cars and causing a crash and a blaze. Seven people died before the "Night Hunters" scrambled from the Southern Military District and turned it into a sieve with 30-millimeter cannon rounds.

  "After that incident, the State Duma immediately passed amendments," the father concluded. "They added an article on 'biological weapon species' to the 'Law on Arms Trafficking.' Now, for the illegal import, keeping, or breeding of creatures like wyverns, you get up to fifteen years in prison. So now you can only see these beauties here, behind very thick glass. And thank God for that."

  He ruffled his son's hair, and the boy, with a new dose of respect and fear, stared again at the giant reptile, which at that moment was lazily scratching its neck with a hind leg, completely unaware of the chaos its wild relatives could cause in a world of glass and asphalt.

  But the real marvel was a separate, even more spacious sector, where two majestic Wind Dragons from Gahara were kept. They possessed high intelligence and could communicate telepathically. One of them sat motionless on a cliff top, its ancient, wise eyes seeming to look right through the visitors. Next to the enclosure stood its rider and a young Russian signals officer.

  "He's scanning the area right now," the rider, dressed in an outfit reminiscent of a kimono, explained. "Wind Dragons can emit and receive radio waves on a magical basis. He can 'see' for a hundred kilometers around, creating a mental map of the terrain in his mind."

  "Astonishing," the officer murmured, observing this. "A living, biological equivalent of a long-range radar."

  But the park wasn't just about science. It was about live interaction. In the center, on a specially equipped "Arena of Honor," two knights from Qua-Toyne in gleaming armor were holding demonstration duels. Today, a young human knight with a straight longsword faced a mighty bear-like beastman with a huge two-handed axe.

  "Look, Van, how he's holding his sword! That's the 'iron gate' stance from the German school of fencing," one Russian tourist whispered enthusiastically to another. Both were historical reenactors and watched the fight with a professional eye. "And the bear-guy, he's just a brute, charging straight ahead, relying on pure strength. No technique at all."

  The clang of steel on steel echoed across the arena. The human knight, using speed and agility, dodged the crushing blows of the axe, trying to find an opening in the giant's defense. Every lunge, every parried blow drew admiring gasps from the crowd.

  Nearby was another popular zone—the "Petting Pen."

  Here, under the supervision of experienced elven trainers, children could touch and feed a tame wyvern. It was an elderly female named Zalanda. She could no longer breathe fire, and over the years of service, she had lost one wing and was now peacefully living out her days. Her once-emerald scales had dulled, but to the touch, she was warm and surprisingly smooth, like polished stone.

  "Mommy, she's warm!" a little girl squealed with delight, carefully running her palm along the massive wyvern's neck. "But I read in a book that they're cold, like lizards!"

  "Because she's not exactly a reptile, sunshine," the elven trainer smiled. "They have a warm-blooded metabolism, like your birds, otherwise they simply couldn't generate enough energy for flight."

  Zalanda lazily opened one eye, looked at the girl, and a cloud of warm, sulfur-scented steam escaped her nostrils.

  In a far corner of the park, behind a neat wooden fence, was the land bird enclosure. These amazing creatures, outwardly resembling huge ostriches or African marabou storks, over ten feet tall, were covered in short, stiff feathers, and their powerful, dinosaur-like legs ended in sharp claws. Dozens of Russian and Qua-Toynian children, holding special bags of pelleted food, crowded at the fence, while the adults watched with curiosity.

  "Look, Dad! She runs so fast!" a girl shouted, pointing at a bird that was swiftly crossing the enclosure, chasing a mechanical rabbit thrown for it.

  "I see, sweetie, a beautiful bird," a civilian biologist father explained nearby. "Her endurance is fantastic; she can run for a full day without stopping. In Quila, in the desert, they use them as pack animals, replacing caravans. With minimal care, they eat whatever they can find and run like meteors."

  The children, surrounded by the land birds, laughed. Some adults cautiously reached out to stroke their stiff, feathered necks. The skin felt like parchment, warm and slightly vibrating with hidden muscle power.

  One of the dwarven engineers from the Academy of Synthesis, whose department specialized in transport, stood next to a representative of the Russian delegation from "AvtoVAZ" and was enthusiastically discussing something.

  "…Do you realize the potential? Add genetically modified muscles, use electro-stimulation to increase endurance. Create a streamlined armored shell for the rider to reduce air resistance… We could have high-speed pack platforms capable of carrying cargo where none of our vehicles can go."

  "Hmm, interesting," the R&D director from AvtoVAZ drawled, rubbing his chin. "AvtoVAZ and theropods… Sounds crazy, but promising."

  And on the "Avenue of Wonders," young student mages from the Academy of Synthesis were performing tricks that were real magic. One elf, with a light wave of his hand, made small points of light dance in the air, weaving into the shapes of animals. An illusionist mage created three-dimensional, almost tangible images of mythical creatures in the air.

  And a fox-like beastman girl, smiling slyly, offered everyone to play the shell game (a classic street hustle) with her, where a small ball disappeared and reappeared in the most unexpected places, teleporting with the help of a simple spell.

  "That's just sleight of hand, there's no trickery here!" a disbelieving Russian man boomed, trying to guess. "Come on, one more time!"

  The vixen just giggled, and the ball disappeared again, only to reappear behind his ear.

  This park was not just a place of recreation. It was living proof that two completely different worlds, the world of magic and the world of science, could not just coexist. They could learn from each other, enrich each other, creating something new, amazing, and full of hope for a peaceful future. This was a true Park of Unity, where yesterday's myths were becoming today's science, and the strict laws of physics coexisted with the wonders of magic.

  The Principality of Qua-Toyne. The Trading City of Maihark.

  A velvety silence, saturated with the aromas of spices and the salt of the sea, descended upon Maihark. Major Roman Spiridonov of the Russian Federation Armed Forces, temporarily assigned as a military advisor to the newly formed 1st Liberation Division of Qua-Toyne, sat on the carved wooden veranda of his new in-laws' home. He watched as the crimson, alien sun of another world slowly sank into the ocean, painting the sky in incredible, otherworldly shades of violet and orange.

  Recently, a momentous event had occurred for him and one other person. He, a career officer in the Russian army, and Captain Ine, commander of the Maihark knightly defense corps, had married. Their union, officiated at the Russian consulate and blessed according to the ancient traditions of Qua-Toyne, became the first official bond between citizens of two worlds.

  Roman took a sip of the tart wine, which carried notes of unfamiliar fruits, and smiled at his memories. Their story had not begun in the roar of battle, but in the tense, echoing silence that followed it.

  (A memory. Two years ago. The Port of Maihark.)

  He remembered that day in minute detail.

  His first official meeting was a visit to the Maihark defense headquarters, located atop the main fortress wall. He had expected to see anyone—a gray-haired veteran dwarf, an arrogant elf in gleaming armor. But he saw her.

  Captain Ine. She stood at an embrasure, gazing out at the sea, her silhouette clearly outlined against the bright sky. A slender woman with hair as black as a raven's wing, in a perfectly fitted steel cuirass, with a face that could have belonged to an aristocrat of ancient lineage, and with eyes that held the steel will and weariness of a commander bearing the safety of an entire city on her shoulders.

  Their first conversation was dry, almost like a military report. He asked questions about the thickness of the walls, about dead zones for firing, about the size of the garrison, about the patrol system. She answered crisply, in a military fashion, without excess emotion. But when the official part was over, she asked a single question that betrayed all her inner tension.

  "Your flying machine… it could have destroyed this city without even noticing our archers on the walls. Couldn't it, Major?" she had asked then, looking him straight in the eye.

  "It could have, Captain," he answered honestly, without a shadow of arrogance. "But its mission was reconnaissance. We didn't come to your world to burn cities. We're looking for allies."

  It was in that moment that the first, barely perceptible spark ignited between them. A spark of professional respect. He saw in her not just a "local," but a competent officer, a colleague. She saw in him not a soulless conqueror, but a soldier just like herself, who understood the language of duty, threats, and responsibility.

  Their feelings were truly born later—when the war with Louria broke out. He was on the front lines, in the thick of it. She was here, in Maihark, preparing reserves and organizing the defense of the rear. Their short, encrypted messages through official communication channels gradually evolved from dry situational reports into something more.

  "All quiet here. How are you? Take care of yourself," she would write.

  "We're holding on. Repelled another attack today. There are many of them, but they don't know how to fight. We'll be back soon. Wait for me," he would reply.

  That war, by separating them physically, had bound them together for good.

  (Return to the present.)

  Roman finished his wine. Ine's cheerful laughter drifted from the house. Having removed her captain's cuirass and changed into a simple house dress, she was helping her mother in the kitchen. Her parents, simple craftsmen, still looked at their Russian son-in-law with a mixture of awe and fear of the new, powerful country, but seeing their daughter's happiness, they were slowly warming up to him.

  Soon, they would have to fly back to Russia, where Roman's service awaited him, and for Ine—studies at the General Staff Military Academy. He watched the setting sun. Life was strange, unpredictable, and at times, cruel. But now, on this quiet evening, in this small town in another, alien world, he was perfectly happy.