On the admiral's bridge of the flagship 150-gun ship-of-the-line, the Pell, the jewel and pride of the entire imperial fleet, the atmosphere was one of intoxicating, almost reckless anticipation of battle. A cool, damp wind whipped the enormous crimson flags bearing the emblem of two crossed muskets in a laurel wreath, their furious snapping mixing with the creak of the giant masts and the low rumble of waves crashing against the massive, copper-sheathed wooden hull. General Sius, resplendent in his dress uniform embroidered with gold, clapped the flagship's captain on the shoulder with paternal familiarity. The captain's gaze was filled with unshakable confidence.

  "I'm counting on you, Daard," the general's voice was thunderous and confident, as befitting a man leading the greatest armada into battle. "Show these upstarts what it means to challenge the Great Empire. Make sure the very memory of them sinks along with their pathetic tubs. Today is a great day, the day we assert our right to rule these waters."

  "I will not fail you, General, sir!" Captain Daard, a stately man with a proud posture and a disdainful curl to his lip, theatrically placed a hand over his heart. His voice boomed, echoing off the carved beams of the bridge. "Our fleet is strong and truly mighty! I'd wager we could give even the Zero Magical Fleet of the Holy Mirishial Empire a run for their money!" His words were full of pride and arrogance, reflecting the general mood of the officer corps. "And these barbarians... only one fate awaits them—the bottom of the sea!"

  Meanwhile, the Parpaldian armada, like a giant swarm of locusts blotting out the horizon, moved inexorably toward the twelve lonely dots of the Russian ships. On the stern of each of the one hundred and eighty-three imperial vessels, set in massive bronze rings, the Empire's primary artifacts—the "Tears of the Wind God"—pulsated with a steady, bluish light. They emitted a constant, low hum, like the chanting of a colossal choir, generating a powerful, directed stream of air that filled the giant sails with a roar. The air around the artifacts shimmered and distorted as if from heat—a visible manifestation of the power that placed the imperial fleet above the laws of nature. The Russian ships, however, like gray, soulless ghosts, maintained a parallel course, keeping a perfect, almost mathematically precise distance of fifteen kilometers.

  General Sius, clenching his inlaid spyglass in his fist, strained his eyes to see their silhouettes. Their lines did indeed resemble the ships of the superpower Mu, but there was one glaring, unsettling difference. Their movement was too smooth, almost unreal, as if they were not sailing, but gliding across the water.

  "Hmm, no funnels and no black smoke, like the ships from Mu?" he muttered, speaking more to himself, trying to conceal his nervousness. "Perhaps they use magical engines, like the Mirishials? But that's unlikely; a country from outside the civilized zone couldn't create something like that. Probably some primitive, inefficient mechanism, which is why they don't dare to get any closer."

  Despite his bravado, a bad feeling, like icy tentacles, gripped his gut. When the distance between the fleets shrank to ten kilometers, a blinding flash, followed by a thick plume of gray-white smoke, erupted from one of the leading Russian ships, as if from the maw of a dragon.

  "The enemy ship has opened fire!" the lookout from the fighting top shouted, his voice filled not with fear, but with genuine bewilderment.

  "But we're ten kilometers out! What is this foolishness?" Sius said, surprised. The maximum range of their best magical cannons did not exceed two kilometers, and even at that distance, hitting a moving ship was a matter of incredible luck.

  "Perhaps they're trying to intimidate us, General, sir? Just putting on a show," Captain Daard offered his two cents, his self-confidence knowing no bounds. "Barbarian bravado."

  The officers on the bridge sneered contemptuously. A cannonball, even one enhanced by magic, could not cross such a vast distance. But in the next moment, their laughter died in their throats. First came a strange, rising, air-tearing shriek, and then—a deafening explosion. The one-hundred-gun ship-of-the-line, the Ropul, which was sailing in the vanguard, erupted like a matchbox. A 130-millimeter high-explosive fragmentation shell, having flown ten kilometers at hypersonic speed, had pierced the deck and detonated in the powder magazine, turning the pride of the fleet into a flying heap of burning debris. The shock on the flagship's bridge was almost palpable.

  "The ship-of-the-line Ropul has been sunk!" the lookout cried, his voice trembling with horror and the realization that all the laws of war he had ever known had just been obliterated.

  The shell, fired from the 130-millimeter twin-barreled AK-130 cannon of the destroyer Nastoychivyy (The Persistent), tore through space like an enraged god of war. It struck the Roproul's hull with such kinetic energy that the imperial ship-of-the-line's vaunted anti-magic steel plating, several inches thick, shattered like brittle parchment. Dozens of pounds of high-brisance explosives, detonating in the powder magazine itself, turned hundreds of barrels of unstable magical gunpowder into the core of a small sun. The explosion from within was absolute. It did not just destroy—it annihilated the Roproul, ripping out all of its wooden innards, transforming the pride of the fleet into a flying heap of burning, smoking debris. To say that General Sius and his staff on the flagship were stunned would be a gross understatement. They stared, their eyes wide with horror, literally choking on a toxic mixture of anger, fear, and crushing incomprehension, at the spot where, just a moment ago, their vanguard ship-of-the-line had been. Their confidence and pride evaporated in an instant, like morning fog under a scorching sun, leaving them alone with a cold, sticky terror and the realization that they had encountered something that was beyond all conceivable limits of their world.

  "BOOM! BOOM! BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!"

  The cannonade, like an unending series of thunderclaps, descended upon the Parpaldian armada. This was not chaotic, barbaric firing. It was a methodical, cold, almost mechanical process carried out by twelve artillery systems. Each shell, guided by a laser beam and data from the ships' radar, dove down like a bird of prey, finding its victim with surgical precision. Ship after ship was enveloped in thick clouds of smoke and fire, the explosions shaking the air, each one marking an irreparable loss for the imperial fleet, turning the great armada into a flaming graveyard.

  "How is this possible?! How can they reload their cannons so fast?!" Sius roared, his voice filled with despair and helpless fury. He instinctively ducked as a huge, burning piece of a mast whistled overhead. He took cover behind the carved stern of the flagship, and in that moment, horror struck him with a new, even more terrible force. He turned to give an order to the captain but received no reply. In the spot where the proud and self-assured Daard had been standing just moments ago, there was now a mangled, bloody mess. A stray piece of shrapnel, flying at supersonic speed, had taken off half his skull, leaving behind a gory pulp and eyes wide with a final, deathly surprise where his aristocratic face had been.

  "The ships-of-the-line Mishra, Lessin, and Kusion are sunk! The frigate Paus is on fire!" the lookout shrieked, gasping and straining his voice, trying to be heard over the crack of breaking masts and the deafening explosions. But even he, it seemed, could not catch his breath fast enough to keep up with the report of dying ships. With every minute, the list of losses grew exponentially.

  "Damn you, monster, just miss for once!" Sius snarled, his voice hoarse and broken. He stared with hatred at the approaching gray, soulless silhouettes of the enemy ships, clenching his fists in utter powerlessness.

  "The enemy destroyer is changing course! It's heading straight for us!" a surviving officer screamed, his voice trembling with terror and despair.

  The Nastoychivyy, without ceasing its fire, began to cleave through the crumbling formation of the Parpaldian armada like a giant steel predator, leading the other ships behind it. The distance had closed to six kilometers—for the Russian cannons, it was practically a point-blank shot, but for the imperial cannons, it was still an unreachable eternity.

  "Hit on the port side!" an officer shouted a moment before the next shell obliterated him and a section of the bridge.

  The flagship Pell shuddered from a monstrous impact. Seawater, roaring as it flooded through a gigantic hole, began to rise rapidly, and the ship, listing, started to capsize like a wounded leviathan.

  "EVERYONE OVERBOARD! THE SHIP IS SINKING!"

  Sius was the last to jump into the cold water, which stank of smoke and blood. Surfacing, he clung with a death grip to some drifting piece of a mast. Gasping for air, he coughed and choked until he could finally see the apocalyptic scene around him. Of his mighty armada of one hundred and eighty-three ships, almost nothing remained but thousands of wooden fragments, burning bales, mangled bodies, and sailors flailing in the water, screaming in terror. This was not a battle. It was a slaughter.

  The engagement, which would later go down in history as the Battle of the Eastern Sea, was over. The Russian fleet, without losing a single ship or even sustaining serious damage, had annihilated an entire imperial armada. This rout was not just a military victory, but a symbol that changed the course of the war and overturned all preconceived notions of the hierarchy of power in this world.

  And as General Sius, bobbing on a piece of his flagship in the middle of this graveyard of ships, realized with horror that he was a witness to the birth of a new, terrible power.

  After the one-sided battle, the Kingdom of Fenn, upon receiving the news of the victory, erupted in celebration. From the capital city of Amanoki to the most remote villages, festivities roared. People cried with joy, embraced each other, praised their mysterious but so-powerful allies and their wise Sword King. They were celebrating not just a victory. They were celebrating their salvation.

  The Parpaldia Empire. The Capital City of Esthirant. The First Department of His Imperial Majesty's Foreign Affairs.

  In the private office of Elto, the head of the First Department, the atmosphere was thick with a nearly tangible tension. The air was heavy, saturated with the aroma of old leather, expensive cigars, and a suppressed, cold rage. Around a massive, mirror-polished table of black ebony, the highest officials of the Parpaldia Empire were seated like predators at a war council. Their faces, usually impenetrable masks of aristocratic composure, were tense, their gazes wary. This was an emergency meeting, dedicated to formulating a strategy to counter the Russian Federation—a new, incomprehensible, and therefore even more terrifying threat that made even the most self-assured among them tremble. The Commander-in-Chief of all armed forces, the mighty Arde, whose figure seemed barely contained by his carved chair, had insisted on the presence of all key figures. He wanted the diplomats and politicians to witness the unbreakable resolve of the army, and for that resolve to be transmitted to them, dispelling all doubt.

  In the ringing silence of tense expectation, a sharp, almost frantic knock came at the massive oak door. It sounded so out of place and defiant in this temple of power that several ministers instinctively flinched. After Elto's clipped, irritated permission, Hans practically stumbled into the office. He was pale, his usually immaculate uniform was rumpled, and large beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He was trembling like a leaf in the wind, and his eyes were filled with a primal, animalistic terror.

  "What is it? Speak quickly and get out," Remille said in an icy tone, dripping with unconcealed contempt. She didn't even turn in his direction, continuing to study the pattern on her wine glass. Her voice, devoid of emotion but sharp and piercing as a shard of ice, made Hans shrink.

  "Y-yes, Your Im… Imperial Highness," Hans stammered, and, shuffling his trembling legs with difficulty, he nearly threw a heavy stack of parchment scrolls, bound with a scarlet ribbon stamped "Highest Urgency," onto the table. "Mu… the superpower of Mu… they have officially notified us through their embassy. They are sending their military observer… to the Russian Federation. Their analysts… they are betting that these barbarians will emerge victorious."

  "WHAT?!" The synchronized roar of fury and absolute bewilderment from Arde, Elto, and Remille made the crystal glasses on the table tremble. Hans recoiled as if he'd been struck.

  "Hans, explain yourself, now!" Elto roared, leaping from his seat, his face instantly turning purple.

  "M-Mu's analysts," Hans continued to stammer, not daring to lift his eyes, "having gathered all available information on recent conflicts… have concluded and are certain of a one-hundred-percent probability of a Russian victory. They… in their official memorandum, they called it not just a victory, but… 'a complete and unconditional triumph of a superior military doctrine over an obsolete one.'"

  Three pairs of eyes, burning with fury, stared at the pale-as-a-sheet deputy. A sinister silence fell upon the office. Remille, as if turned to stone, slowly, with the grace of a predator, rose. She silently walked to the service table by the sofa, took a heavy crystal decanter of vintage forty-year-old wine, filled her glass to the brim, and drained it in a single gulp without even wincing. Then she poured another. And another. The fire of the precious liquid, it seemed, was the only thing that could melt the icy terror that had gripped her soul and turn it back into her familiar, all-consuming rage.

  The ominous silence was broken by Commander-in-Chief Arde. He let out a contemptuous snort, trying to mask his own shock behind a veneer of professional analysis.

  "Mu have always been cowards and overly cautious," his rumbling bass sounded confident, restoring a sense of order to the office. "Their analysts see a threat behind every bush. Let's look at the facts, not the of cowardly merchants. Let's assume that these Russians were indeed preparing for war with us. Their preparation is impressive, but what is it based on? According to our intelligence reports from Qua-Toyne, they have gunboats. This suggests technology that is primitive even for us, but, I'll agree, excessive for barbarians. They might cause our fleet some trouble, but nothing more. Their main, unsolvable problem is logistics. Delivering ammunition for their primitive cannons across an entire ocean will become a logistical nightmare that will exhaust them in a few weeks."

  He swept a confident gaze over everyone, and a look of relief appeared on the faces of some of the dignitaries. The general's logic was simple and easy to grasp.

  "As for their land forces," Arde continued, ticking a finger, "our ground legion currently in Fenn consists of three thousand elite soldiers and thirty-two lindwurms, plus our man-portable cannons. By all canons of military science, a successful assault on such positions would require the enemy to have at least a five-to-one numerical superiority. Fifteen thousand soldiers! Where would these destitute barbarians, who just barely survived some internal collapse of their own, get that many troops? General Sius, rest assured, knows exactly what he is doing. And if he needs help, we can always redeploy our Western Fleet to the east. Mu is simply panicking. They're spooked by a ghost they conjured themselves."

  The commander-in-chief's confident speech had its effect. The tense atmosphere in the office began to dissipate. The ministers breathed a sigh of relief, once again believing in the invincible power of the Empire, and their conversation shifted to a calmer, more analytical tone.

  "If everything Mu's analysts are saying is true, can we still achieve victory, Lord Arde?" the head of the First Department, Elto, asked cautiously. His voice, which had nearly cracked before, now trembled with poorly concealed anxiety, not rage. He was a diplomat, not a soldier, and in his world, cold calculation always trumped bravado.

  "You need not worry, Your Grace," Arde replied with unconcealed, almost condescending arrogance. He surveyed the room with the look of a man who knows everything better than anyone else and is tired of explaining the obvious to amateurs. "Thanks to the 'Tears of the Wind God' magical artifacts, our ships possess unparalleled speed and maneuverability, which allow us to dictate the terms of battle and avoid any damage. We can attack when we choose and withdraw when we deem it necessary. Our frigates and ships-of-the-line, upon closing to broadside range, will simply crush these primitive barbarian tubs like bugs. And even if my assumption about Mu's support is correct and a tough fight awaits us, the capture of the Kingdom of Fenn is just a matter of time, and nothing more. This is mathematics, gentlemen, not emotion."

  The tense atmosphere in the office finally dissipated, replaced by a sense of business-like calm. The ministers once again believed in the invincible power of the Empire. But there was another knock on the door. This time, hurried, almost frantic, shattering the newly restored harmony.

  "What now?" Remille scowled at the entering clerk as if at an annoying bug that had disturbed her peace.

  The clerk, stooped under the weight of bad news, could barely stand. His face was the color of parchment, and his eyes were frozen with horror.

  "The troops…" his voice was barely audible, "…the troops sent to the Kingdom of Fenn… the invasion fleet and the landing corps… have been completely… annihilated," he whispered, as if afraid the words themselves could kill him. "The survivors… including General Sius and Lieutenant General Dolbo… have surrendered to the Russians."

  "WHAT, WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY, YOU FILTHY DOG?!" Elto roared, leaping from his seat, his aristocratic face instantly turning purple with rage. "DID YOU VERIFY THIS NEWS, YOU IDIOT?! WHO DARED TO REPORT SUCH NONSENSE?! WHERE DID THIS DATA COME FROM?!"

  CRASH!

  The sound of shattering porcelain and splintering wood made everyone flinch. An expensive service table, imported from the Mirishial Empire itself, on which stood an opened bottle of wine, was reduced to a pile of rubble by a single furious kick. All eyes turned to the one who had caused the chaos. Remille, mad with rage, like a Fury, was destroying everything her hands and feet could reach. She viciously smashed a priceless vase against the wall, and it was clear that if she had gotten her hands on the clerk who had brought this "joyful" news, she would have broken him over her knee without a second thought.

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  "ARDE!" her thunderous, almost inhuman roar made even the mighty commander-in-chief shrink in his chair. A vein throbbed on her aristocratically pale forehead, and her face was contorted with such primal rage that she looked like a demoness from ancient legends. "THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! OUR EMPIRE HAS LOST TO SOME BARBARIANS! THIS ISN'T JUST A DEFEAT! IT'S A RESOUNDING, HUMILIATING SLAP ACROSS THE FACE OF OUR ENTIRE CIVILIZATION! WHY DIDN'T YOUR INCOMPETENT OFFICERS ASSESS THE THREAT?! WHY DIDN'T YOU REPORT THE REAL SITUATION IN A TIMELY MANNER?!"

  To his credit, the Parpaldia Empire had indeed sent a mighty force to Fenn. Tens of thousands of elite soldiers, hundreds of elite wyvern lords, an entire fleet capable of wiping any nation in the Third Civilized Zone off the map. If it weren't for Russia, they would indeed have swept through the lands of Fenn with fire and sword, from end to end, leaving not a stone unturned. But it was precisely this realization that made the defeat even more monstrous and incomprehensible.

  "Your Imperial Highness…" Arde, pale and trembling, jumped up and bowed in a deep, almost slavish bow. All his self-confidence, all his military logic, had crumbled to dust in the face of Remille's irrational fury and the catastrophic reality. "Please accept my deepest apologies. Allow me to immediately deploy all available military forces at our disposal! We will have our revenge! We will assemble the Grand Armada! The Empire will never be defeated!"

  Receiving a barely perceptible, contemptuous nod from Remille, the commander-in-chief, as if scalded, hastily, almost backing away, exited the warzone that had erupted in Elto's office.

  Remille, exhausted by her outburst of anger, collapsed onto the sofa. As if in agony, she dug her fingers into her silver-ash hair, ruining her perfect coiffure. Slowly, deeply inhaling and exhaling, she tried to regain her composure. When she lifted her head and looked at the ashen-faced Elto, he involuntarily flinched. The shock had burst the delicate vessels in her eyes, and now a true, enraged demon with bloodshot eyes was staring at him and Hans.

  Remille had reason to worry. She, unlike the thick-headed generals, understood the true, most terrible danger of this defeat. Seventy-three conquered states were in a vassal relationship with Parpaldia. They endured humiliation, paid tribute, and gave their sons to the imperial army for one reason only—out of fear of its invincible military might. And if now, at this very moment, they sensed their suzerain's weakness, revolts and uprisings would flare up across the Empire like a wildfire. This defeat was not just a military setback. It was the first, ominous tremor that could lead to the complete collapse of their colossal colonial empire, built on fear and blood.

  "Elto!"

  The name, thrown with icy fury, made the head of the First Department jump as if struck by a whip. He fearfully raised his head from the scattered reports on the table and looked at Remille.

  "Yes, Your Imperial Highness?" his voice, usually steady and confident, betrayed him with a tremor.

  "Prepare the directive for the 'Great Cleansing,'" Remille said. Her voice was quiet, almost soundless, but all the more terrifying for it. The gaze of her bloodshot eyes was empty, expressing nothing but a cold, absolute, almost inhuman resolve. "I want to be certain that not even ash remains of these Russians. That their very foul name is burned from the history of this world. Bleed their entire nation dry. Start with Fenn. Then, Qua-Toyne. I am going to His Imperial Majesty to obtain approval for full-scale mobilization and the declaration of a total war."

  Her words sounded like a sentence delivered by Death itself. A chill ran down Elto's spine. "The Cleansing"… This was not just a military term. It was the Empire's most terrible doctrine, used only twice in its thousand-year history. It implied not just war, but total genocide. The complete annihilation of a people, its culture, its history. Wiping them from the face of the earth. He knew it was madness. Not just cruelty—it was state suicide. To throw all the forces of the Empire into the maw of an enemy whose strength they did not even know...

  "But… Your Highness… perhaps we should first conduct additional reconnaissance, assess their real potential, try to enter into negotiations through third countries…"

  "Silence!" she hissed. "Negotiation is for the weak. We are the Empire. We dictate, we do not ask. Prepare the order."

  "As you command…" Elto muttered, lowering his gaze. He did not dare to object. In Remille's eyes was such an icy madness that he understood: any word against it would be regarded as treason, and his head would adorn a spike over the palace gates before the ink on this damned order had dried.

  Exiting the office like an enraged demon, Remille slammed the heavy oak door with such force that plaster rained from the ceiling. Elto, left in the ringing silence, sank powerlessly into his carved chair. He felt empty, gutted. With trembling hands, he reached for a hidden panel under the tabletop. Pressing a concealed button, he retrieved a dusty, pot-bellied bottle with no label from a recess. Cognac. Real, forty-year-old cognac, bought for an exorbitant price from smugglers from the Kingdom of Shios. His small, forbidden weakness, his only medicine for this world.

  His hand would not obey as he poured the amber liquid, smelling of sun and prohibition, into a crystal glass. He downed it in one gulp, hoping the burning fire could scorch out the sticky, paralyzing fear from within. But it did not help. He poured another.

  "Madmen… they've all gone mad…" it hammered in his temples. He, unlike the fanatical generals and the emperor blinded by pride, understood. Understood that the Empire, as they knew it, was already dead. This defeat was not just a military setback. It was a symptom of a mortal disease. Arrogance. They had believed in their own invincibility, in their right to rule the world for too long. And now, a power had appeared that didn't give a damn about their greatness, their history, their gods. A power that operated by different, incomprehensible, and terrifying laws. And now, instead of trying to understand and negotiate, they had decided to simply burn down the whole world, starting with their own home.

  He drained the second glass. The bitter drink burned his throat but could not drown out the taste of absolute, crushing hopelessness.

  Kingdom of Altaras. The Royal Capital of Le Brias. One of the Resistance Cells.

  In the royal capital of Le Brias, in the very heart of the oppressed Altaras, a desperate, almost suicidal war of shadows continued. The kingdom was suffocating under the heavy vassal noose of the Parpaldia Empire, whose military might seemed as endless as the ocean itself. Soldiers, ammunition, and weapons arrived at the port in a ceaseless flood. If the partisans burned one warehouse or derailed one supply convoy, three new ones would immediately arrive to take its place. The capabilities were so disproportionate that voices of despair were heard more and more frequently within the resistance ranks. With each passing day, the spark of hope in the hearts of the people, exhausted by the struggle and constant fear, grew dimmer.

  Just as he had yesterday, Captain Rial, his face etched with grim determination, sat in ambush on the roof of an abandoned bakery. From here, from behind a half-ruined chimney, he watched the movements of the red-and-black uniformed patrols like a predatory hawk. He could feel his battle fervor cooling with every hour of waiting, giving way to a cold, viscous despair. If only there were some word from the king! Some confirmation that their sacrifices were not in vain! But there was no king, no Princess Lumies. They had vanished as if they had never existed. And this silence was more terrifying than any defeat. Deep down, Rial was certain: if they were alive, they would have been hanged in the central square long ago, as a reminder of the fate of anyone who dared to challenge the Empire.

  Like a predator, he watched his prey—a routine patrol of the Imperial Oversight Army, whose route he and his men had been studying for two weeks. Their heavy, hobnailed boots scraped against the ancient cobblestones with a repulsive, monotonous grating. Their coarse, guttural voices mixed with drunken laughter. They walked with the relaxed, lazy swagger of masters of their domain, their cumbersome magical arquebuses slung over their shoulders. A perfect target.

  Rial gritted his teeth. He remembered the face of one of his men, just a boy, whom they had lost last week. He had been shot with arquebuses while slitting the throat of a Parpaldian official on his way to the governor's palace. "For Altaras…" had been his last whisper. For Altaras. But was there even an Altaras left worth dying for? The thought, caustic as acid, ate away at him from the inside.

  "Pah!" Rial spat bitterly onto the roof tiles. He shook his head forcefully, trying to banish these foul, poisonous thoughts. He knew that if he gave in to despair, if he allowed this icy hopelessness to seep into his soul, he would lose. Not just a battle, but the entire war. And then the deaths of his men would truly be meaningless.

  "Captain, Ari is calling for you," a young man in a dirty burlap hood whispered, appearing from the shadows behind him like a ghost. It was Kiren, one of his best scouts, capable of moving through the city in absolute silence. "He said it will change everything."

  "Take my place. Keep the sector under control," Rial said curtly, handing the spyglass to Kiren. "You remember the signal. If the patrol turns into this alley—one short whistle. Two—if they have reinforcements."

  Kiren nodded silently and, as if dissolving into the background, took Rial's position. The commander, in turn, jumped to an adjacent roof and, moving along familiar, treacherous cornices and ledges, dove a few minutes later into an inconspicuous hatch leading to the cellar of the half-ruined factory, their secret headquarters.

  Inside, in the damp gloom, it smelled of gun oil, musty straw, and human sweat. In a far corner, in a small alcove partitioned off by rags, he saw Ari. The young, self-taught genius, their chief communications specialist, sat hunched over a complex construction of magical crystals and interwoven copper wires. His shaggy hair was disheveled, and his eyes, ringed with dark circles from sleepless nights, shone with a feverish light. He didn't notice the commander's arrival.

  "Ari, what's the urgency?" Rial grumbled. "I almost missed the perfect moment to attack."

  "Captain! Captain! Over here! Quick!" Ari leaped up, nearly knocking over the fragile relay. He rattled on, pointing a trembling hand toward the main receiver, "This is critical, you have to hear this! Personally!"

  Rial, seeing the boy's genuine, almost hysterical excitement, frowned. "Stop shouting, I'm coming. What do you have? Intercepted some drunken officers' chatter again?"

  He entered the small room where, on a roughly made table amidst a multitude of magical devices and instruments, one manacomm receiver glowed with a faint, emerald-green light, like a tiny beacon of hope in an ocean of despair.

  "Here," Ari, with trembling hands, handed the tanned leather earpiece to the captain. "I… I accidentally picked up a relay broadcast. It's coming through on the Kingdom of Muoz's magical frequency, in the Third Civilized Zone, but the source… it's somewhere far away, beyond our world. Say 'stop' when you hear the voice. It's their news summary," he finished and, biting his lip, began to nervously, with surgical precision, turn a copper tuning knob.

  Rial, after a slight hesitation, let out a skeptical grunt but put on the earpiece. There was a hissing and crackling, like the reviving ghost of ancient magic. Through the static, interference, and distant, distorted voices speaking in foreign tongues, he tried to catch something familiar. Trade negotiations, the orders of ship captains, someone's mournful song… But then, through all this chaos, a voice broke through. A firm, commanding, painfully familiar voice that he thought was silenced forever. Rial's heart skipped a beat, then began to pound with a doubled, deafening force.

  "Stop!" the captain barked, almost shouting, not believing his own ears. "I hear…"

  "Yeah, hold on… adjusting," the manacomm operator muttered, turning the knobs, his lips pressed into a thin line from extreme concentration. And then the voice, cleared of interference, sounded pure and powerful, as if it were speaking directly into his ear, into his very heart, reviving a long-forgotten feeling—the feeling of loyalty and hope.

  "I, Taara the Fourteenth, King of Altaras, speak to you, my loyal subjects! Know that I am alive!" the king's firm and confident voice resounded. It was amplified by some unknown technology, devoid of distortion and static, and because of this, it seemed not the voice of a mortal, but the very voice of providence. "My kingdom has been seized by a treacherous enemy, Parpaldia, a power that swore to protect us. But we are not broken! We have organized a government in exile, in a great power that has given us shelter. And the name of this power is the Russian Federation!"

  Rial gripped the table so tightly his knuckles turned white. Russia! The very same! The legends were true!

  "I say to Parpaldia—get off my land! Spare your soldiers a meaningless and disgraceful death! And to you, my subjects, I issue a call! Prepare yourselves! I, your king, have not abandoned you! Let all the people of my kingdom be ready for the beginning! All the nations that groan under the yoke of this terrible monster named Parpaldia, unite! Parpaldia is not invincible! The Kingdom of Fenn, thanks to Russia's aid, has already fought this monster and gutted it! Rise up for a fight to the death! This is a holy war!" his voice sounded like an alarm bell, a call to arms, shaking the very foundations of their tormented souls.

  "Is that… is that our king?" one of the resistance officers who had come over at the noise whispered in disbelief. His face, covered in fresh scars, was contorted in a grimace of shock, and in his eyes, previously dull and tired, a spark of hope ignited.

  "Quiet!" Ari hissed at him, his eyes glued to the receiver, a finger pressed to his lips.

  Struck dumb, Rial could not believe his ears, everything inside him trembled with overwhelming emotions. His struggle. The struggle of all Altarans. All those months in damp cellars, all those raids, every drop of blood shed, every fallen comrade—it was not in vain! The king was alive! Their banner had not fallen! A single, bitter tear of a man's relief rolled down his unshaven cheek. He hastily, almost shamefully, wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  Immediately after Taara's speech, music boomed from the manacomm, cutting through the static. It was not anthems or marches. It was a strange, wild, but incredibly powerful melody. The crash of drums, like the beat of a thousand hearts, a furious, roaring guitar riff, and a strong, gravelly male voice singing in a guttural language of rebellious will and struggle. This music, alien to their world, somehow, in a primal way, got under their skin, making the blood boil in their veins.

  "Cut it immediately! This… this song… it was not approved!" a panicked voice from a Kingdom of Muoz host came through the receiver. "Apologies, technical difficulties… And now… beauty news. The great life mage Kendi Van Dael has recreated an ancient spell that will make your skin…"

  Ari, with a grimace of disgust, abruptly cut off the receiver. The cellar was once again plunged into a deafening silence. For several long moments, the resistance fighters were silent, processing what they had heard. And then one, then another, and then all of them, began to slowly, almost sinisterly, smile. Their eyes, just moments ago filled with despair, now burned with the fire of righteous anger. The morale of the Altarans, it seemed, had soared to unprecedented heights. The king was alive, and that meant the fight continued, and hope had been reborn in their hearts, like a phoenix from the ashes.

  Rial looked at his men. He saw in their eyes what he had not seen for many months—not just a readiness to die, but a furious, unquenchable thirst to win. He knew: tonight, Le Brias would tremble.

  Esthirant. The First Department of His Imperial Majesty's Foreign Affairs.

  A deafening silence hung in the office of the First Department's Head, broken only by the muffled, nervous tapping of Remille's expensive high-heeled shoe. She stood by the window, gazing out at the sun-drenched capital, but she saw not its grandeur, but the ruins of her own pride.

  "This is a catastrophe…" she whispered, and there was no longer steel in her voice, only the fragility of shattered glass. She covered her face with her slender, trembling fingers, trying to hide the despair that contorted her beautiful features, but the shudder of her shoulders and her feverish, ragged breathing betrayed her.

  "WHY DID I ONLY RECEIVE THIS DAMNED MAGICAL BROADCAST NOW, YOU FILTH?!" her enraged roar, full of fury and helplessness, echoed throughout the entire building, making even the thick stone walls tremble. She snatched the precious crystal relay from the desk and hurled it against the wall with all her might. The artifact, worth a fortune, shattered with a crystalline chime into a thousand pieces, like a symbol of the Empire's fallen hopes.

  The magical recording, relayed through all the nations like a plague, had been intercepted by the Intelligence Bureau with unforgivable delay. Because of this cursed broadcast, the vassal states, as if on command, began to proclaim their independence. Kuze was the first to rebel, then Marta and Aluka. Their puppet rulers, installed on their thrones by Parpaldia, were torn to pieces by mobs in their central squares, and the small imperial garrisons were slaughtered or fled in panic. This was the first, but most significant, step towards the collapse of the centuries-old foundations of the Parpaldian Empire's integrity, like a crack running through the base of a colossus.

  "This is the end of the empire…" she whispered again, sinking powerlessly into her chair, her voice filled with hopelessness.

  In the silence, another timid knock came at the door.

  "Yes. Come in," Remille said hollowly. She looked up at Elto, who entered the office with obvious concern. "What is it, Your Grace?"

  "Ahem, Your Imperial Highness," he began, clearing his throat, trying not to look at the shattered crystal. "You… in your anger, it seems you missed the reply on your personal manacomm from His Imperial Majesty." Elto gestured cautiously to the bracelet on Remille's wrist, which was still faintly glowing with a ruby light. "He… he has given his full approval for the commencement of the 'Great Cleansing.'"

  Remille slowly raised her head. Her devastated gaze focused on Elto. And he saw the fire ignite again in her bloodshot eyes. A mad, furious, and absolutely merciless fire.

  "I will brand the bodies of these filthy Russians," she hissed, and her voice was like the screech of metal on glass. "I will turn them into moaning, will-less slaves! Arrogant spawn, who fancy themselves arbiters of fate…" Into every word, Remille poured so much concentrated hatred that the very air in the room seemed to turn poisonous. She stood up, and her figure, despite its outward fragility, radiated a sinister, unbreakable power. This was no longer just a woman. This was an enraged demon, ready to burn the entire world just to have her revenge.

  The Parpaldia Empire. The Capital City of Esthirant. The General Staff Headquarters.

  In the private office of the Supreme Commander-in-Chief Arde, the air was thick with the heavy smoke of expensive cigarillos, shrouded in semi-darkness. The soft, flickering light from a magical lamp picked out the grim, furrowed lines of his face from the shadows. He reread the thin folder of dispatches from the Intelligence Bureau again and again, and each line, written in a dry, almost lifeless language, was like a hammer blow to his pride. His fingers mechanically shuffled through the parchment sheets. Why would Mu, the second most powerful superpower, make such a clear and humiliating bet on some no-name barbarians instead of Parpaldia?

  The data received on the clashes in Nishinomiya-ko was like a bucket of ice water poured over his head, tearing him from the warm cocoon of imperial arrogance. The enemy's qualitative and quantitative superiority, their tactics—all of it far exceeded the most pessimistic expectations. The losses sustained in this localized war would not have been a catastrophe if it were only a matter of land forces—he still had fifty legions in reserve. But the loss of almost a third of his combat-ready fleet! That was a knife to the very heart of the Empire's naval power.

  He had counted on being able to assess the Russians' real potential based on data from their clash with the primitive army of Louria. But now, he was plagued by gnawing doubts. Could that data have been inaccurate? Or worse, intentionally distorted to lull them into a false sense of security?

  "I need to turn every archive related to this cursed Russia upside down," Arde muttered. Pressing the selector key on his manacomm, he spoke: "Lebaris, I need all information, absolutely everything, on the Russian Federation. And check all our sources for disinformation. Pull up the dossiers on Mu for the past two years. Look for any anomalous contacts, any secret shipments."

  "It will be done, Your Excellency," the voice of the head of his personal analytical department replied immediately.

  Arde leaned back in his chair, his mind frantically searching for an explanation. And gradually, from scraps of reports, rumors, and his own prejudices, the only, as it seemed to him, logical and terrifyingly simple theory began to take shape in his head.

  "Wait… what if…?" Arde, mumbling to himself as if afraid to voice his own guess, jumped up and began to pace the office. "What if Mu has been exporting their weapons? Secretly. Russia is their battering ram, aimed at us! By destroying our empire with their hands, Mu will become the undisputed hegemon in the Second and Third Civilized Zones!"

  Arde's face darkened. He, the great strategist, had almost fallen into a trap. He leaned over the manacomm again.

  "Tell the Intelligence Bureau to dig deep into the Russian Federation," he said, as if pronouncing a sentence. "But the main target is Mu! Find proof of their betrayal! Everything you find—on my desk immediately!"

  "Yes, Your Excellency," the voice replied.

  Arde put down the receiver. He felt a strange, dark relief. Now he had an enemy. An understandable, familiar, and hated one. He did not know that this brilliant, as it seemed to him, theory was his main and fatal mistake. A mistake that would definitively and irrevocably lead his Empire to ruin, pushing it into a war not with an equal rival, but with a force he had never managed to either understand or measure. And while he, confident in his own rightness, prepared for war with a ghost, the real threat was already at his doorstep.