The Parpaldia Empire. The Capital City of Esthirant. The First Department of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

  Kaios strode across the immaculately polished marble floor, his every step echoing in the silence of the endless corridor. The cold of the stone seemed to seep through the thin leather of his expensive shoes, rising up his veins like a herald of the icy reception that awaited him. The walls, adorned with ornate gilded stucco and enormous canvases depicting the Empire's triumphal victories, oppressed him with their grandeur. Here, within the hallowed halls of the First Department, where the fates of superpowers were decided, he, the head of the Third Department, the "Empire's janitor" who handled the dirty work with barbarians, always felt like an outsider.

  Approaching a massive double door of mahogany, inlaid with the Imperial crest—two crossed swords within a laurel wreath—Kaios paused for a moment. Behind this door was the department head's office, the place where he had been summoned by a personal order from Emperor Ludius himself. The internal tension, which he so masterfully concealed behind a mask of aristocratic boredom, was stretched to its limit.

  "This office should have been mine by right," the thought, painful as the prick of a red-hot needle, pierced his consciousness. He remembered the day when he, a brilliant graduate of the Imperial Academy, had been passed over, the post given to Elto—a man of no particular talent but with an impeccable bloodline. He had been exiled to the Third Department, to that viper's nest of intrigue and cruelty, where the only reward for loyal service was universal contempt. The moment of weakness passed, and the familiar mask of indifference returned to his face.

  The door opened silently, and he entered. A clerk, moving with the grace of a court eunuch, led him into a spacious room where the air was thick with the scent of expensive tobacco, old leather, and a commanding tranquility. The department head, Elto, stood by the window, his figure in an immaculate uniform as still as a statue. Near him, other senior officials, like satellites orbiting a planet, engaged in quiet, hushed conversation with glasses of wine in their hands. But Kaios barely spared them a glance. All his attention was fixed on the woman sitting in a deep armchair in the shadows by the fireplace.

  She appeared to be no more than twenty-five, and her beauty was cold, perfect, and dangerous, like that of an ice sculpture. Long hair, the color of platinum, almost silver, fell freely over her shoulders. A simple but perfectly tailored black dress with long sleeves contrasted sharply with her alabaster skin, lending her entire presence a touch of mystical, almost necrotic aristocracy. The way she held a glass of blood-red wine in her slender fingers revealed an innate, almost predatory grace.

  After greeting everyone present in turn, as required by strict imperial etiquette, Kaios finally turned to her and, keeping his gaze level, said:

  "Lord Kaios, here by order of His Imperial Majesty. How may I be of service?"

  The noble lady slowly raised her eyes to him. In her gaze, the color of a winter sky, there was nothing but cold, analytical curiosity. And on her thin, almost bloodless lips, a venomous smirk appeared.

  "As if you don't know, my lord? Grow up. And for once, start thinking for yourself. Your barbarians have just humiliated the Imperial fleet. And you ask how you can be of service?"

  Her voice, devoid of emotion but sharp and piercing as a shard of ice, cut his ears. There was no anger in it, only pure, concentrated contempt.

  "My apologies, but with whom do I have the honor?" Kaios asked, his tone polite but with an icy edge, making it clear that he would not tolerate such a tone, regardless of who she was.

  The woman unhurriedly set down her glass and looked him straight in the eye.

  "His Imperial Majesty's Audit Service for Foreign Affairs. Head of the service, Lady Remille."

  A chill ran down Kaios's spine.

  The name she uttered—Remille—struck Kaios's mind like a bolt of lightning. He lowered his head, feeling the muscles in his back turn to stone. His entire sense of self, all his years of carefully cultivated aristocratic pride, was choked by a wave of bitter, suffocating humiliation. He was forced to bow before her—not merely as a woman or an aristocrat, but as the direct embodiment of the Emperor's will.

  "My apologies, Your Imperial Highness," the words came out with difficulty, sounding hollow and foreign.

  But Remille was far from finished. She took a slow, elegant sip of wine, as if savoring his humiliation, and continued, her voice as cold and sharp as a surgeon's scalpel.

  "As you know, we are not gathered here for pleasantries. We are discussing the Russian Federation. Am I not mistaken, Lord Kaios, in assuming that it is your department that bears full responsibility for all diplomatic contact with the barbarian nations?"

  Her question was rhetorical, laced with venomous irony. She didn't even give him a chance to answer.

  "His Imperial Majesty's words cannot be misinterpreted, Kaios. He was perfectly clear: 'Bring these Russians to heel.' There is not a shred of ambiguity in that phrase. But what did you do? You received their ambassadors, negotiated with them, treated them as if they were our equals, as if they were representatives of a civilized state. Because of your shortsightedness and your weakness, we have all been dealt a losing hand." She shot him a look that could have cracked granite.

  Kaios felt the blood rush to his temples, a cold sweat breaking out on his back. He clenched his hands behind his back into fists so tight that his nails dug into his palms. Every word from Remille was like the lash of a whip, and she savored each one.

  "Which is why, using the authority granted to me, I am revoking all matters concerning the Russian Federation from the Third Department. From this moment on, all dealings with this barbarian nation will fall under the direct management and personal control of the First Department," Remille pronounced with an icy calm that was more terrifying than any shout.

  She turned to the department heads and to Elto, who stood in reverent silence.

  "From this minute forward, all diplomatic contact, all intelligence and counterintelligence activities regarding Russia must be cleared with me personally."

  Then she turned back to Kaios, and her words sounded like a final judgment delivered by a supreme court.

  "Lord Kaios, remember this: those who are incapable of understanding and executing the grand design of His Imperial Majesty have no place in this Empire. You will remain the head of the Third Department. For now. And for that, you should be grateful." She paused and, slowly raising her elegant index finger, pronounced with an authority that brooked no argument: "But henceforth, be extremely careful. In every action. And in every word."

  Kaios froze, but a glacial storm raged within his soul. This public flogging, this humiliation in front of his chief rivals, was like a cold shower dumped on his ambitions. He barely managed to contain his fury.

  "I… obey, Your Imperial Highness," he managed to hiss, almost in a whisper, gritting his teeth so hard they audibly scraped.

  His gaze swept across the faces of those assembled. Elto was studiously looking out the window. But on the faces of his deputies, Hans and the others, Kaios saw faint, gloating smirks. They were enjoying his downfall. It was unbearable. How could it be that he, one of the sharpest and most effective administrators in the Empire, was now forced to endure this? But he endured it. He knew that any sign of weakness or defiance now would be the end for him.

  And so, a new chapter began in the history of Parpaldia. One of madness, blinded by pride and a thirst for blood.

  Remille watched the defeated Kaios with a triumphant look, reveling in her victory. She was certain that she could easily "bring to heel" these Russian barbarians. But for Kaios, this defeat was only the beginning. The beginning of his own, secret war. A war to save the Empire from the madmen who were leading it to its inevitable ruin. He left that office humiliated, but not broken. In his cold, calculating eyes, a plan was already taking shape. A long, dangerous, and bloody plan.

  The Kingdom of Fenn. The Western Region, Nishinomiyako Province.

  Nishinomiyako, a province on the westernmost tip of the Kingdom of Fenn, had transformed into a bastion bristling with steel and resolve, silently gazing westward. After the humiliating defeat of Parpaldia off the coast of Fenn a year ago, it was clear to everyone: a new, even bloodier war was only a matter of time. This province, with its main port city, controlled strategically vital straits and was a dagger aimed at the very heart of the Third Civilized Zone. Therefore, the Russo-Fennese alliance had turned it into an impregnable fortress.

  The entire civilian population had been evacuated deeper into the country. The streets of the once-bustling city were now deserted, and its houses and ancient walls quartered two thousand elite Fennese samurai warriors, their fighting spirit as strong as the tempered steel of their katanas. But they were not alone. Alongside them, in modern, rapidly-constructed barracks, were the operational groups of private military companies—soldiers from "TerraRosgroup," "Shield," and other corporations. Officially, they were "instructors and security specialists." In reality, they were elite Russian special forces, equipped with the latest technology, their presence here carefully disguised under commercial contracts to deny Parpaldia a formal pretext for declaring war. This combined garrison, blending ancient valor with modern technology, was meant to withstand the first blow.

  Three kilometers to the west, on a small, uninhabited island covered in dense forest and cliffs, a forward observation post had been established. This island was the nerve center of the entire defense system. Sixteen sentries—eight Fennese and eight Russian contractors—stood a round-the-clock watch. The alert system was three-tiered: the first signal was an encrypted message on a secure satellite communications channel. The second, if the electronics failed, was a high-powered laser designator aimed at Russian patrol ships in the sea. And the third, the most ancient and desperate, was a red signal flare.

  Today, however, it seemed as if the gods of war themselves had fallen asleep. A light breeze barely rippled the mirror-like surface of the sea. The melodic singing of birds created an atmosphere of tranquility. But it was the quiet of a drawn bowstring. On one of the secluded cliffs, hidden in dense thickets, lay two men. Kenji, an old, gray-haired Fennese samurai, and a young Russian contractor with the call sign "Leshiy" (Forest Spirit).

  "Too quiet," Kenji muttered, his eyes glued to a pair of powerful Russian binoculars. "The sea is sleeping. That's always a bad sign before a storm."

  "We have a saying: 'The calm before the storm,'" "Leshiy" nodded, peering through the thermal sight of his suppressed VSSK "Vykhlop" sniper rifle. "The patrol boat's radar is clear too. Not a single large target within a hundred-kilometer radius."

  Their gazes were fixed on the horizon, where the calm water seemed endless. But their years of experience—the experience of hundreds of battles and dozens of wars—screamed at them that this idyllic scene was a lie. And it did not deceive them. Kenji froze.

  "There…" his voice was barely audible. "Leshiy" immediately swung his scope in the indicated direction.

  "I see it. Multiple small contacts. In formation. Sails… dozens, if not hundreds."

  He quickly entered the data into a tactical tablet.

  "Shit. This isn't just a fleet. It's an invasion armada. They're advancing on a broad front, not even trying to conceal themselves. The arrogance."

  Kenji lowered his binoculars. His face had become like a stone mask.

  "Run," he said, his voice a whisper but with the force of a command, to the second Fennese sentry, a young man named Taro, who had been standing silently behind them. "Run to the transmitter. Warn the Russians. Immediately. It's the Parpaldians."

  "Yes, sir!" Taro breathed out and, without wasting a second, took off. Like a shadow, he darted deeper into the forest, towards the camouflaged command post. His mission was to transmit the first, most important message of this war. And Kenji and "Leshiy" remained on the cliff, preparing to meet the enemy. It was two of them against an entire armada. But they had to buy their comrades precious minutes.

  Forward Observation Post on the unnamed island west of Nishinomiya-ko.

  Inside the command post, carved into the rock and reinforced with ferroconcrete, it smelled of dampness, ozone from the humming electronics, and strong coffee. The low ceiling was oppressive, and the only sources of light were the green screens of the tactical complex and a dim emergency lamp. In the center of the room, a mobile "Kredo-1S" radar system hummed, its antenna under a camouflage net continuously scanning the horizon.

  At the console sat a communications sergeant, Matvei Volkov. For several hours, he had been monotonously watching the empty green grid of the radar. Suddenly, a sharp, piercing beep shattered the silence. On the screen, at the very edge of the detection zone, a tiny dot appeared. Then another, and another. Within a minute, the entire western part of the sector was covered by a huge, spreading red blotch. The system automatically classified the targets: "Surface object. Class: large. Quantity: 99+."

  "Lieutenant, sir!" Volkov shouted. "We have contact! Massive contact! Azimuth two-seven-zero, range—eighty kilometers!"

  Lieutenant Kazakov, the commander of the Russian contingent on the island, was instantly behind him.

  "Speed? Heading?"

  "Moving slow, five or six knots. Heading straight for Nishinomiya-ko. Judging by the signature density… this is a war fleet. A very large one."

  At that exact moment, the heavy blast door of the bunker swung open with a clang, and the young Fennese warrior Taro stumbled inside, exhausted.

  "They're coming!" he gasped. "Kenji-san and the Russian sniper saw them! They're everywhere! It's like a forest of masts has grown out of the horizon! They've raised their sails!"

  Kazakov placed a hand on his shoulder.

  "Easy, Taro, breathe. We already know."

  He turned to Volkov, on whose face was a look of utter astonishment.

  "What is it, Sergeant? Why are you staring at the screen like that?"

  "Lieutenant, sir… I switched to the optical feed from the remote post… You have to see this," Volkov muttered.

  Kazakov leaned over the duplicate monitor. On the screen, at maximum zoom, swaying in the heat haze, was an armada… of sailing ships. Huge, multi-decked wooden vessels with towering masts and dozens of gunports were advancing in lines as straight as if on parade.

  "I'll be damned…" the lieutenant breathed out. "It's like something out of an old maritime painting. I mean, I read in the intel reports that their tech was at a Napoleonic Wars level, but to see it in person…"

  He thought for a moment. "Volkov, get on the horn with Central. Report the composition. Describe it as 'a numerous fleet of wooden sailing ships-of-the-line'."

  The sergeant put on his headset, and his voice became flat and metallic.

  "Central, this is Observation Post Zero-One, I have a visual on the enemy eighty kilometers out, azimuth two-seven-zero. Sentry confirmation is affirmative. I assess the force as an invasion fleet. Composition includes hundreds of wooden sailing ships-of-the-line with multi-deck cannon armaments. Total strength estimated at no less than one thousand vessels. How copy?"

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  After a moment of tense static, the calm voice of a staff officer from Nishinomiya-ko came through the headphones:

  "Observation Post Zero-One, this is Central. Copy that. Your radar data is already on our tactical tablets. We confirm the situation. Activate Protocol 'Zaslon' (Shield). We will keep you updated. Over and out."

  Kingdom of Fenn. Western Region, Nishinomiya-ko Province. "Katana" Defense Line.

  The signal from the forward observation post, boosted by repeaters, struck the joint defense headquarters of Nishinomiya-ko like a defibrillator shock. The dormant, hidden "Katana" defense line instantly roared to life. Through underground cables and encrypted radio channels, the command "Protocol 'Zaslon' (Shield)" spread across dozens of pillboxes, bunkers, and camouflaged positions. In Nishinomiya-ko, everything was ready for a "warm" welcome for the guests.

  The first thing the Parpaldian landing barges would see was miles of "Egoza" razor wire spirals, which, like predatory steel vines, entangled the entire coastline, extending right into the surf. Through these barriers, narrow, kill-zone "corridors of death" had been left, which, upon the alert signal, would be immediately sealed by remotely activated POM-3 minefields and PDM-1M anti-landing mines, dormant on the seabed.

  Behind the wire, dug into the coastal dunes and hills, awaited the first line—reinforced concrete pillboxes. Opposite each passage, dug into the ground and covered with camouflage netting, were firing points crowned with armored cupolas. In each of them sat a two-man crew from the PMC "Shield."

  "Contact. Target is a swarm of small vessels," the machine gunner reported coolly into his headset, looking through his thermal sight. "Range seventy-five. Approaching."

  His partner silently aimed the launcher of a "Kornet" ATGM at the lead barge, waiting for it to enter the effective engagement zone.

  Three hundred meters behind them, in deep, full-profile trenches, Fennese warriors took their positions. Every samurai standing here was a symbol of the fusion of two eras. His soul still belonged to the code of Bushido, but in his hands was not a family sword, but a Russian RPK-16 light machine gun. Months of grueling training under Russian instructors had transformed them into unique soldiers, where samurai composure was combined with 21st-century firepower.

  The entire defense system was a living, deadly organism. Deeper inland, on the commanding heights, crews of "Msta-S" self-propelled howitzers were already turning their long barrels, having received precise target coordinates from "Orlan-10" drones hanging like invisible ghosts high in the sky.

  At the second-line command post, in a bunker that smelled of damp earth and ozone, a captain of the Fennese army, Hashimoto, and his Russian handler, an SSO captain with the call sign "Granit" (Granite), looked at a tactical tablet.

  "They're advancing on a broad front, without even attempting reconnaissance," "Granit" said in a hollow voice, looking at the spreading red stain of the enemy armada. "Arrogance."

  "Our warriors are ready, Captain," Hashimoto replied. His face was as calm as the surface of a pond before a storm, but the way he gripped the hilt of his sword, which lay on his knees, revealed a colossal tension. "Every one of them is prepared to meet death. This is our home. Our land."

  "No one's dying today, Hashimoto-san," "Granit" smirked. "Order your men to await my command."

  Tension hung heavy in the air. Against the backdrop of the distant roar of waves crashing against the cliffs, there was an absolute, deadly silence. The Fennese samurai, hidden in their trenches, had become part of the earth itself. Their breathing was steady and almost inaudible, all their senses sharpened to the extreme. There was no fear in their eyes. Only the cold, meditative concentration of a warrior before the final battle.

  Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a growing, unlike-any-other roar—the roar of thousands of throats, the clang of armor, and the creak of hundreds of landing ramps being lowered onto the sandy shore.

  The din of battle brought the minutes of death closer.

  The 100-gun ship-of-the-line Phishanus Three hundred meters from the unnamed island.

  On the captain's bridge of the Phishanus, the flagship of the Imperial Oversight Army, the air was thick with barely restrained impatience. General Cius, commander of the punitive expedition, stood with his legs planted wide before a huge table, upon which a nautical chart was spread. The report, just received via manacomm from the wyvern lord squadron, confirmed it: the skies were clear, there was no air resistance.

  "The enemy is hiding behind their walls like cowardly rats," he sneered, without even looking up from the map. His white-gloved finger stabbed authoritatively at two key objectives: the Western Castle, deep in Nisinomiyko,, and the coastal military-industrial districts. "This is precisely where we will deliver our first strike. We will decapitate their garrison and strip them of their ability to produce arrows and repair their pathetic boats."

  He barked at his officers. "Secure the passage for the assault battalion! All ships—take up bombardment positions! Suppress any possible defense on the shore!"

  The ships-of-the-line began to slowly turn, presenting their broadsides to the coast. The "Tears of the Wind God" magic stones, woven into their rigging, began to glow faintly, and the enormous sails billowed with an unnaturally strong, gusty wind.

  "Relay my order immediately!" the general added, his voice rising. "Deliver a massive volley from all starboard magic cannons on the military-industrial districts! First assault battalion—begin the landing and secure a beachhead!"

  "Yes, General, sir!" the adjutant snapped.

  Soon, the air was shattered by a deafening, eardrum-splitting roar. Dozens of ships-of-the-line, as one, unleashed a broadside. Red-hot magic cannonballs, wreathed in a shimmering aura, howled towards the shore. The earth and sea trembled. The explosions turned the coastal warehouses and workshops into a roaring inferno. Plumes of black smoke and fire rose to the heavens, obscuring the horizon and creating the perfect cover for the landing force.

  Meanwhile, a hundred small landing craft, having detached from the main fleet, surged towards the beach. On the bow of the lead vessel, his arms crossed over his chest, stood Captain Arm, commander of the fourth assault squadron. He watched the chaos on the shore with a faint smirk.

  "Barbarians… they're all the same. They think their pathetic wooden walls and bows and arrows can stop the might of the Empire," he said to his lieutenant.

  In his hands was the latest magic arquebus—a cumbersome but deadly weapon. After the easy work of conquering the Kingdom of Altaras, he was absolutely certain of success.

  "Heh, a cakewalk," he said, checking the mechanism of his weapon. "In an hour, we'll be drinking their sake in the ruins of their castle."

  At the hidden command post on the shore, Captain "Granit," gazing at the screen of a tactical tablet, calmly gave his orders.

  "The enemy is actively advancing toward the landing point. Artillery, hold your fire. Pillbox crews—do not open fire. We wait for their full debarkation. Let them gather into a nice, dense cluster on the beach."

  With a dull grinding sound, the assault ships nosed into the sand, and from their ramps, with wild, guttural cries, thousands of soldiers began to pour out.

  "Move it, move it! Form up!" sergeants shouted, trying to organize their men. "Weapons ready!"

  The soldiers formed up in dense, almost parade-like ranks, preparing to march on the city.

  Arm, the commander of the fourth squadron, was the first on shore. He was personally arranging his veterans, but something was unsettling him. The silence. Apart from the roar of the fires and the shouts of his own soldiers, there was no other sound. No return fire, no battle cries from the defenders. Only the sinister whisper of the wind.

  "Strange…" he muttered, scanning the shore.

  His gaze caught on several patches of sand that seemed to have a different, darker, and wetter hue. And then a cold sweat broke out on his skin. A warrior's intuition, honed in dozens of battles, screamed of danger.

  He sharply raised his head, peering at an unremarkable hillock overgrown with sparse shrubs. There was nothing there. But the feeling of inevitable doom, cold and sticky, would not leave him.

  "Waiting…" the voice of one of the snipers came through the radio in "Granit's" ear. "They're in the zone. Perfect target."

  "FIRE!" Captain "Granit's" dry, almost emotionless voice, which crackled over the encrypted radio network, became the trigger for a perfectly oiled machine of death.

  In that same second, the sandy beach, which just a moment ago had seemed so peaceful, erupted in a roar of steel and fire. Twelve heavy "Kord" machine guns, installed in reinforced concrete pillboxes, opened fire simultaneously. Their deafening, air-tearing crackle, reminiscent of giant jackhammers, merged into a single, unending roar. Fiery tracers, invisible in the daylight but leaving distortions in the superheated air, like devil's scythes, began to methodically mow down the dense, almost parade-like ranks of the Parpaldian landing force.

  The 12.7mm armor-piercing incendiary rounds didn't just kill. They tore people apart. The bullets punched clean through them, turning their insides into a bloody pulp and exiting from their backs, taking chunks of flesh and bone with them. Panic, instant and all-consuming, overwhelmed the landing troops. The perfect ranks disintegrated in an instant. The Imperials, driven mad with terror, threw themselves to the ground, tried to dig into the sand, sought cover behind the bodies of their fallen comrades.

  Captain Arm, who just a second ago had been reveling in his superiority, barely managed to instinctively hit the sand as a burst of fire zipped over his head with a vicious, ear-splitting whistle. He pressed himself into the ground, deafened by the roar, feeling the vibration from the nearby impacts of bullets in the sand pass through his entire body. He covered his ears with his hands, but it was no protection from the deafening, unceasing roar, in which the screams of his dying soldiers were drowned.

  When the first, longest burst ceased—the machine guns having gone to change their red-hot barrels—Arm, breathing heavily, raised his head. What he saw was a scene straight out of hell. The beach was littered with corpses. Next to him, in a grotesque pose, lay the operator of his manacomm, a young man from a noble family who had been foisted on him by command. A bullet had entered his forehead, leaving behind only a neat hole from which a thin stream of blood and brain matter flowed. His eyes, wide open with the surprise of death, stared into the indifferent, pale sky.

  "Contact with the fleet is lost… We're alone," Arm realized with an icy horror. He saw his surviving soldiers, obeying their ironclad imperial discipline, trying to organize a defense. They took cover behind the bodies of the dead, using them as shields, trying to return fire with their arquebuses. But their single, inaccurate shots were useless against the withering, enfilading fire from the hidden positions.

  And then the machine gun bursts resumed. Following them, with a characteristic "coughing" sound, the AGS-30 "Plamya" automatic grenade launchers from the second line of defense opened up. Thirty-millimeter fragmentation grenades began to rain down on the heads of the terror-stricken Imperials. Each grenade, upon detonation, covered a five-meter radius with a deadly fan of hundreds of tiny shrapnel pieces, turning anyone who failed to find cover into a sieve.

  Through the manacomm, which Arm had taken from the dead operator, came the desperate, broken cries of the other squadron commanders.

  "—first squadron is almost wiped out! We have over seventy percent casualties! Requesting—"

  "—we're being hit from above! I can't see where they're firing from!"

  Suddenly, the machine guns and grenade launchers fell silent. A short, ringing silence descended. The surviving soldiers, deafened and concussed, slowly began to raise their heads. The officers, trying to restore order, gave orders with hoarse shouts, gathering the remnants of their units into battle groups. They thought the worst was over. That they had a chance. But it was just a tactical move, calculated and merciless.

  "FORWARD! TAKE THE HIGH GROUND!" Arm shouted, realizing that their only chance was to break through to the hills where, he thought, the enemy was entrenched.

  And at that moment, as his soldiers, gathering their last strength, rose to attack, the sky above them seemed to darken.

  From camouflaged trenches and "foxholes" (a direct U.S. military equivalent to the Russian лисья нора) on both sides of the landing force, with a terrifying, guttural battle cry, hundreds of figures rose like ghosts. The Fennese warriors. Dressed in sand-colored camouflage, their faces painted the color of the earth, they were almost invisible. Brandishing their curved katanas, which gleamed predatorily in the sun, they, like a tsunami wave, crashed down on the flanks of the exhausted, demoralized imperial landing force. It was not just an attack. It was a death sentence.

  "FOR FENN! FOR THE SWORD KING! HUZZAH!"

  That roar, wild, guttural, and full of primal fury, erupted from five hundred throats at once. It hit the demoralized Parpaldians like a shockwave, paralyzing their will. And in that same instant, a bloody, chaotic melee began.

  The Parpaldian soldiers, trained to fight in dense formations, desperately tried to hold back the onslaught. They thrust their long arquebuses forward, trying to use them as short spears. But the Fennese warriors, moving with a fluid, almost dance-like grace, were faster, deadlier. Their curved katana blades flashed in the air, finding the smallest gaps in the heavy imperial armor. One short, calculated movement—and the blade would enter a joint under an arm or an unprotected neck. A gurgle, a fountain of blood—and another imperial soldier would silently sink onto the blood-soaked sand.

  "HOLD YOUR FIRE! HOLD YOUR FIRE, YOU IDIOTS! YOU'LL HIT OUR OWN MEN!" Captain "Granit's" desperate order came through the Russian machine gunners' headsets.

  The enfilading fire from the "Kords" instantly ceased. Now, this was a battle where technology had given way to the ancient art of killing.

  Arm, feeling adrenaline supplant his fear, found himself face-to-face with one of the Fennese. He was a tall samurai with a face that resembled a demon mask from ancient legends. Arm instinctively thrust his magic arquebus forward, blocking the whistling strike of the blade. Steel scraped against the metal of the weapon with a screech. Another strike, and another. But the samurai was faster. With a feint, he made Arm shift his block, and in the next moment, his katana struck the arquebus from the side with incredible force, knocking it from his hands. Arm, not losing his composure, drew his officer's cutlass from its scabbard. A duel began.

  Sparks rained from their blades. Every strike, every feint, was a gamble for his life. But Arm, accustomed to fighting in formation, was outmatched in individual skill. The samurai, moving with almost unbelievable speed, circled around him, and his blade, as if alive, found a breach in his defense. A sharp, blinding pain pierced Arm's torso. He looked down and, with surprise, saw the blade of the enemy's sword protruding from his stomach.

  At that very moment, a Fennese war horn sounded shrilly over the battlefield. The signal to retreat. The samurai, not wasting time to retrieve his sword, left it in Arm's body and, with a short battle cry, rushed back with his comrades. Like ghosts, they dissolved into the coastal scrub, retreating behind the saving line of razor wire, leaving behind hundreds of corpses and absolute chaos.

  Arm stood staggering on his feet. Hot blood pumped from his wound in spurts. The last thing he saw were the retreating backs of his enemies. In his slowly fading eyes, there was only helpless hatred. He tried to take a step, but his legs gave way. He collapsed to his knees, and a final, gurgling rattle escaped his throat.

  As soon as the last Fennese warrior disappeared behind the barriers, the Russian machine guns spoke again. Methodically, coolly, and mercilessly, they began to finish off the remaining Imperials on the beach. Now there was nowhere for them to hide. Of the ten thousand elite soldiers who had landed on the shore, no more than a hundred remained alive—wounded, concussed, and broken.

  On the bridge of the flagship, General Cius, watching this slaughter through his spyglass, lost his composure. With an inhuman roar, he grabbed the manacomm operator, who had just reported the complete failure of the landing, by the throat.

  "WHY DID THEY RETREAT?! WHY DIDN'T THEY FINISH THEM?!" he roared, not understanding that this was all just part of a brutal plan.

  The losses were not just heavy. They were catastrophic. This was not just a failed landing. This was a massacre, orchestrated with diabolical calculation. But the war continued. For Fenn and Russia, it was going exactly according to plan.

  In the capital, Amanoki, Sword King Shihan, having received the report, gave the order: transfer all available forces to Kubonomiyaki. In positions cleared of civilians, deep in the defenses, new weapons sent by their Russian allies were already being set up—twin-barreled 23mm ZU-23-2 anti-aircraft guns, nicknamed "Zushkas" by the troops. Their primary task was to defend against wyverns. The time bought by this bloody slaughter on the beach was used wisely. Sappers began to mine the entire coastline, and two kilometers from the front line, in dug-in revetments, batteries of heavy 120mm 2B11 mortars were deployed, ready to turn any new offensive into a fiery hell. The anvil was ready. Now, all that remained was to wait for the hammer to fall.

  Kingdom of Topa. The Fortress-City of Tormeus.

  The central square of Tormeus, recently a battlefield, was once again alive. At the rebuilt market, merchants loudly called out prices for smoked fish and northern berries. Children cheerfully kicked a ball across the cobblestones. But today, everything fell silent. A huge crowd—merchants, artisans, peasants from the surrounding villages, and veterans of the recent war with harsh, scarred faces—had gathered by the town hall. A herald, standing on a high platform, unfurled a parchment scroll bearing the King's seal, and his resonant, magically amplified voice pierced the air:

  "HEAR YE, HEAR YE! BY THE WILL OF HIS MAJESTY, KING RHODOS! I BRING TO YOUR ATTENTION THAT OUR GREAT ALLY, THE MIGHTY RUSSIAN FEDERATION, HAS OFFICIALLY DECLARED WAR ON THE AGGRESSOR PARPALDIA EMPIRE! A CLASH OF TITANS IS AT HAND!"

  A low, agitated murmur swept through the crowd. People began to whisper, their faces a complex mixture of emotions—from triumph to poorly concealed anxiety. To the side, leaning against the wall of a tavern, stood two men. One was Gai, the same mercenary who had survived the meat grinder at the World Gate, now sporting a new chainmail shirt bought with a generous royal reward. The other was a young militiaman, his face still bearing the mark of the horror he had endured.

  "So, who do you think's gonna win?" the young man asked, a touch of boyish bravado in his voice.

  Gai, taking a long, satisfying pull of beer from his clay mug, thoughtfully scratched his unshaven cheek.

  "Russia, of course," he answered lazily, but with absolute confidence. "Their power… it's not magic, kid, it's something else. Almost divine. They wiped out the Demon Lord and his twenty-thousand-strong horde. And this vaunted Parpaldia of yours… What can they do against tanks and those 'helicopters' of theirs? I think it's not even going to be a war, but a short, brutal ass-kicking."

  "I wouldn't be so sure," a quiet but weighty voice said nearby.

  An elderly merchant, whose trade caravan had traveled to the civilized lands even before the war with the demons, had approached them.

  "You young men don't know the real Parpaldia Empire. I've seen them. I've seen their hundred-gun ships-of-the-line in the port of Esthirant—they are floating fortresses, a perfect, unbreakable formation. Russia defeated the demons, that's true. But demons are chaos, a wild, untamed force. Parpaldia is order. A cold, ruthless, imperial order, honed by centuries of conquest."

  The young militiaman shook his head in doubt. "But… the Russians…"

  "Yeah, maybe you're right," he admitted after a pause, "but still, they're going up against one of the five world superpowers. This isn't a horde of wild orcs. I heard that when the Parpaldians invaded the Kingdom of Altaras, they took almost no losses in the first few days. They just wiped their army off the face of the earth."

  "That's true," the merchant nodded, "the war will be brutal. And very bloody. The Russians are strong, but the Empire's army is no slouch either. It's vast and experienced."

  They fell silent, contemplating the coming storm. The people in the crowd were arguing too. Some, like Gai, blindly believed in the invincible power of their Russian saviors. Others, older and more cautious, remembered the stories of their fathers and grandfathers about the omnipotence of Parpaldia, and in their hearts, gratitude towards Russia was mixed with a deep-seated fear of the Empire. And none of them could predict with certainty what the outcome of this battle of titans would be. One thing was clear—the world they had known would never be the same again.