The Kingdom of Altaras. The capital city of Le Brias. Several months after the invasion.

  Following the sudden and mysterious death of the Imperial Governor, Shoka, the fragile dam of Parpaldian order collapsed. Anarchy, like a raging torrent of filth and blood, flooded the streets of Le Brias. The deceased's subordinates, no longer restrained by iron discipline, devolved into gangs of looters and murderers, reveling in their impunity.

  Rial, a former captain of the elite Rial guard, moved through the grimy streets of the capital, sticking to the shadows. His dusty cloak concealed old but impeccably cleaned plate armor, and a deep hood hid a face set in a mask of cold, concentrated hatred. Every burned-out house, every desecrated statue, every frightened glance from the city's inhabitants brought him back to that day. The day his world had burned.

  (Flashback. The Battle of the Plain of Tears.)

  The sun glinted off the thousand curved scimitars and polished scale armor of the ten-thousand-strong army of Altaras. Their formation, arrayed on the green plain, was unlike the heavy European squares. It was a flexible, multi-layered phalanx. Above the ranks of infantry, a forest of long spears rose, and on the flanks, like the wings of a bird of prey, the elite cavalry was positioned. Riders in light armor and snow-white, feather-adorned turbans sat astride hot-blooded, short desert steeds that impatiently pawed the ground. They were an unbreakable, swift storm, ready to crash down upon any foe.

  On his warhorse, in richly decorated armor, surrounded by his personal guard, stood the young and confident Captain Rial.

  Across from them, a mile away, the Parpaldian invasion army was deploying. They did not form flexible formations. They formed strange, long, three-rank lines, like a soulless, dead mechanism. In their hands were not curved scimitars, but identical wooden "sticks" with metal—muskets.

  "What a pathetic sight. They can't even hold a proper formation," one of his lieutenants sneered, looking at the straight, graceless lines of the Parpaldians.

  But Rial felt a sense of unease. He saw their heavy siege cannons on clumsy wheels. He had heard from scouts about the thunder and smoke. And then, the order was given.

  A dry, crackling roar rolled across the plain. The volley from their artillery. Most of the cannonballs shrieked past. But a few found their mark. Rial watched in horror as a twelve-pound iron cannonball struck the center of their infantry line. It didn't stop. It tore through the first soldier, the second, the third, the fourth, leaving a monstrous, bloody swath in its wake.

  "CHARGE! ALL CAVALRY! OVERWHELM THEM BEFORE THEY CAN RELOAD! FOR THE KING AND ALTARAS!" Rial roared.

  The war horns sang out a furious signal.

  The light cavalry of Altaras, the likes of which were unmatched on the entire continent, surged forward. This was not the heavy charge of armored knights, but a swift, all-consuming swarm. The earth shook from the thunder of thousands of hooves.

  But the Parpaldians did not flinch. When the cavalry was a hundred yards away, the first rank of their infantry raised their muskets as one man. A deafening, unified volley erupted. A huge cloud of white, acrid smoke enveloped the field. And when it cleared, the front ranks of the charging cavalry simply ceased to exist. Knights and their horses, riddled with a hailstorm of lead bullets, crashed to the ground, creating a bloody barrier over which the following ranks stumbled.

  The second rank fired a volley. Then the third. This was not a battle. It was a slaughter. The noble warriors of Altaras, the finest horsemen of their time, were gunned down like cattle, never even reaching the enemy to strike a single blow with their scimitars.

  Return to the Present

  Rial clenched his fists with quiet fury. That battle had ended in utter annihilation. He was one of the few survivors who had managed to retreat to the capital. But that had only delayed the inevitable agony. Now, a year later, he was walking through the streets of his dead city, and that same helpless rage he had felt on the Plain of Tears burned within him anew. It was the systematic destruction of Altaras — as a nation, as a culture, as a home to thousands. And he had sworn vengeance. Even if it was the last thing he ever did.

  Through the sound of cold autumn rain drumming on the rooftops, he heard a scream. Sharp, piercing — full of pain and despair. He froze. Instincts honed by years of service and months of guerrilla warfare tightened his body like a coiled spring. Pressing himself against a cold, wet wall, barely breathing, he carefully peeked around the corner.

  In a narrow alley where puddles mixed with mud and blood, three Parpaldian soldiers stood. Their black-and-red uniforms were soaked and splattered with filth, but the dull gleam of the sergeant's silver braid still marked him as the ranking officer. In front of them, her back pressed to the wall, stood a woman. Her fair hair clung to her face, and in her eyes — red from crying — flickered raw, animal terror. She was clutching a little girl of about five, her knuckles white as she held the child close. The girl sobbed uncontrollably, her face buried in the folds of her mother's dress.

  "Do you dare defy us?" The sergeant's voice was cold and sharp — like the edge of a knife sliding across skin on a winter's night. He looked the woman over with open contempt. "Your brat is suspected of setting fire to an Imperial granary. She's coming with us. To headquarters. For questioning."

  "Please… I beg you," the woman whispered in a trembling voice, tightening her hold on the crying child until her hands shook. "That's impossible… She was with me all day — we never even left the house! She's only five, she's just a child!"

  The sergeant stepped forward slowly, his face twisting into a grin of cruel satisfaction. He was savoring her fear, her helplessness.

  "Shut up, wench. You think I care about your excuses?" With a brutal yank, he tore the girl from her mother's arms.

  The child screamed — a shrill, primal cry that seemed to split the gray, rain-soaked air. The soldier who caught her held the little girl by the back of her dress at arm's length, as though she were a dirty, wet puppy that might soil his hands.

  "On your knees, filth!" the sergeant barked. Drawing his short, broad officer's sword, he struck the woman hard across the back with the flat of the blade.

  She collapsed onto the wet, muddy cobblestones with a muffled cry. Her thin shoulders shook with silent sobs, but her eyes never left her daughter.

  Three of them. All armed. Sergeant and two privates. One's holding the girl — most vulnerable. The second's standing back, relaxed. The main threat — the sergeant.Rial's mind, trained for instant tactical assessment, worked with mechanical precision.

  He waited. To intervene now would mean revealing himself — and possibly compromising the entire operation. His mission was more important than one woman. One child. That's what he'd been taught. That was the right thing to do.

  But to hell with doing what's right.

  His body — honed by hundreds of drills in the Rial Guard and months of guerrilla combat — moved on instinct, faster than thought. Before he even realized it, the combat knife from the sheath on his forearm was in his hand. In one silent motion, like a shadow, he crossed the ten meters to the soldier holding the girl — in the time it took for a single heartbeat.

  The blade slipped cleanly and deeply into the base of the man's neck beneath the stiff collar of his uniform. The soldier didn't even cry out — he only choked once, and his body went limp like a sack of rags, dropping the child. Rial caught the girl with one arm, passed her to her stunned mother, and in the same breath, sprang toward the sergeant.

  The sergeant, hearing the dull thud of a body hitting the ground, turned with the speed of a veteran. His short, heavy infantry sabre hissed as it left its scabbard.A violent clash erupted between them.

  Steel rang out — sharp and high — mingling with the steady murmur of rain. The sergeant's strikes were powerful, cleaving blows — the brutal style of the Imperial Army, made for formation combat and bayonet drills, where there was no room for finesse. He fought head-on, throwing his full weight into every strike. But Rial, trained in the elegant dueling style of Altaras's Rial Guard, never met those strikes head-on. He moved lightly, almost dancing on the slick stones. His long, narrow dagger didn't block — it deflected.

  "Who the hell are you, bastard?!" the sergeant roared, stepping back to launch a crushing attack.

  Rial didn't answer. He feinted. The sergeant took the bait, and his heavy sabre sliced through empty air, making him stumble for just an instant.

  An instant was all it took.

  A short, almost invisible motion — and Rial's dagger, like a scorpion's sting, pierced upward into his throat, just under the jaw. The sergeant choked, eyes wide with shock. He clutched at his neck as blood gushed between his fingers, soaking his white collar and crimson uniform. He fell to his knees — then face-first into a muddy puddle.

  The last soldier, seeing his commander fall, fumbled in panic to fire his unloaded musket, then clumsily reached for his short sword. Rial ended his terror — and his life — with a single precise, almost merciful thrust to the heart.

  Silence fell, broken only by the rain — and the soft, trembling sobs of the child.

  For a long moment, Rial stood still, breathing heavily. His eyes swept the dark windows and doorways — checking, confirming. No more threats. Slowly, he approached the woman.

  She was still kneeling in the puddle of mud and blood, clutching her daughter so tightly her knuckles had gone white. The girl no longer screamed, but her small body trembled with quiet, helpless shivers.

  "Can you walk?" Rial asked. His voice was rough and tired after the rush of battle.

  The woman looked up at him. In her eyes — like reflections in a shattered mirror — burned endless gratitude and unspent terror.

  "I… I think so," she whispered. "Thank you… You saved us."

  "It's not safe here. Jackals roam these streets. Stay close to me," he said curtly, sliding the bloodstained dagger back into its sheath. He reached out and helped her to her feet.

  And in that moment, looking at her frightened yet hopeful face, he felt no triumph of victory — only a heavy, wordless exhaustion. Another life saved. But at the cost of three others.What have they done to our city? he thought bitterly. What have they turned me into?

  He led them through the dark, rain-swept alleyways — another saved life in a city of ghosts. But how many more would have to be sacrificed before this nightmare finally ended?

  Resistance Headquarters. Underground Shelter.

  Rial led the woman and her daughter to the secret shelter. It was a large hall, dug out beneath the ruins of an old temple. The air here was heavy, smelling of damp earth and smoke. A dim, bluish light emanated from several magic crystals, stolen from the occupiers' storeroom. Along the walls, on straw mattresses, lay the wounded, and in a far corner, several women, also rescued from the clutches of the patrols, quietly prepared a meager soup over a fire.

  — You're safe here, — Rial said, entrusting the woman and her daughter to the care of one of the older partisan women. — Stay here until everything settles down.

  The woman simply nodded in silence, her arms tight around her child, her eyes filled with boundless gratitude.

  Rial then made his way to the central table, where a lieutenant was already waiting for him over a huge, yellowed map of the city.

  — Captain, — he began without preamble, his voice tense with excitement. — Confirmation just came in over the secure channel. Negotiations with the Russian Federation are complete. They've agreed to provide us with full military support.

  Rial froze. His entire body tensed like a drawn bowstring.

  — When?

  — One week. Operation "Retribution." All our cells on the island have already received preliminary orders. They're waiting for your final signal.

  Rial slowly leaned over the map. His finger traced the red circles marking Parpaldia's main bases—the airfield, the port, the northern fortified district. Places that had once seemed impregnable. But now… now everything had changed.

  — Good. Relay to everyone: full mobilization. In one week, these bastards will learn what the true wrath of Altaras looks like.

  The lieutenant gave a short nod and vanished into the shadows. Rial was left alone. He looked at the map, upon which the fate of his homeland was being played out, and said quietly to himself, though it was not just a thought, but an oath:

  — This is our last chance. And I will do everything not to waste it. For the King. For Altaras. For all who died in this cursed war.

  One week later. Kingdom of Altaras. Northeastern coast.

  Knight-Rider Eyvis, seated in the heavy leather saddle of his wyvern lord, was on a routine patrol. Below him stretched the grim, rocky shores covered in dense forest. Down in the murky water, fishing boats scurried about—the inhabitants of the coastal villages, driven mad by hunger and lawlessness, were trying to flee the chaos-engulfed kingdom.

  The order he had received that morning was simple and brutal: "Suppress any attempts to escape. Do so demonstratively and without mercy." Until this moment, Eyvis, a seasoned veteran of many punitive operations, would not have felt a shred of guilt unleashing his wyvern's fiery breath on these pathetic worms. But now, in the cold, damp morning air, his thoughts were heavy and thick. Something had changed. The air was saturated not just with sea salt, but with anticipation.

  Suddenly, his wyvern let out a low, uneasy rumble, turning its enormous head to the east. Eyvis instinctively followed its gaze. Through the gray, tattered clouds, he noticed something strange. Low over the water, where nothing was supposed to be, something dark, with an irregular, angular shape, flashed.

  "What the…" Eyvis pulled on the reins, forcing the wyvern into a sharp turn.

  He raised the steel visor of his helmet. His heart skipped a beat, then plummeted into an icy abyss. From behind the curtain of fog, like ghosts from the depths of the sea, the silhouettes of gigantic ships, completely clad in gray, matte armor, began to emerge. He had never seen such vessels. They moved without sails, against the wind, leaving white wakes behind them, and on their decks, menacing, predatory gun barrels were aimed directly at the shore.

  "No… how did they get here?! Recon reported the area was clear!" he exclaimed in a panic, fumbling for the cold crystal of his manacomm to report the invasion.

  "This is Eyvis! Base, come in! In sector Gamma-Three… a fleet! Unidentified ships! They're huge! I repeat, we're being…"

  He never finished.

  On the bridge of the large landing ship Ivan Gren, in the semi-darkness of the combat information center, a young lieutenant, the air defense operator, calmly reported:

  "Air target detected. Classified as 'wyvern, elevated class.' Entering engagement zone of the Pantsir-M complex. Target is being tracked. Requesting permission to engage."

  "Permission granted," the CIC commander replied indifferently.

  In the sky before Eyvis, a fiery trail erupted from the deck of one of the gray leviathans. He didn't even have time to register what it was. The shell, fired from a 30mm automatic cannon, reached him in a fraction of a second. Shrapnel of red-hot steel, like a swarm of giant hornets, shredded the wyvern's body and Eyvis himself. The wyvern lord let out a horrific, gurgling roar of pain. Its leathery wings folded uselessly, and leaving a crimson trail of blood and flesh in the air, it plummeted like a stone.

  The remains of the once-proud knight-rider and his majestic beast crashed into the coastal forest with a dull, wet crack, snapping ancient trees. Operation "Retribution" had begun.

  On the bridge of the 50-gun flagship, the Hidel.

  Captain Darth stared into the empty sky with growing anxiety. The message from the air patrol, Knight Eyvis, had cut off so suddenly and unnaturally that a bad feeling had immediately taken root. The airwaves were filled with a dead, ominous silence. But he didn't have long to ponder—a desperate cry from the lookout in the crow's nest shattered the tense atmosphere.

  "Captain! Ships on the horizon! Dead ahead!"

  Darth instantly grabbed his heavy spyglass and aimed it eastward. In the air, shimmering with a heat haze, he saw them. Several dark, low-slung, predatory silhouettes, moving at an incredible speed, without a single sail. Above the lead vessel flew an unfamiliar flag—the Russian tricolor!

  "All hands to battle stations!" he commanded loudly, swallowing a lump in his throat. His voice, usually confident, betrayed him with a slight tremble. "Form a line of battle!"

  The bare feet of sailors pounded on the deck, blocks creaked, and the war drums beat an urgent rhythm. The Parpaldian ships, obeying the signal, began a clumsy maneuver, trying to turn their broadsides to the enemy. The hum from the "Tears of the Wind God" intensified, as if the ships themselves, sensing mortal danger, were howling in fear.

  "Russian flag on the lead ship!" the lookout shouted again.

  Darth spat on the deck with hatred.

  "Dammit… What do these barbarians want here?!"

  The next moment, his question became rhetorical.

  "Enemy ship has opened fire!"

  From the lead Russian vessel—the large landing ship Ivan Gren—its 130mm AK-130 artillery system fired. The deafening, heavy boom reached them tens of seconds after they saw the muzzle flash. But the shell was already here. It tore through the air with an unimaginable scream and slammed directly into the center of the 30-gun ship sailing alongside the flagship. The shockwave made the Hidel shudder.

  "Direct hit to the powder magazine!" the lookout shrieked. "Gods, everyone take"

  He never finished. The Hidel had barely passed the spot where its neighbor had just been when that ship, like a demon from the sea's depths, erupted upwards in a pillar of fire. The vessel disintegrated with such force that a rain of burning debris and shredded human remains fell upon the flagship's deck. But this was only the beginning. The first shot was followed by others. One after another, like a nightmarish row of dominoes, the ships of his squadron were transformed into roaring funeral pyres.

  Darth stood frozen, his face ashen with the realization of the catastrophe. This wasn't a battle. This was an execution. He looked at the horizon. Five Russian ships had fired just one shot each. And five of his ships had ceased to exist. He, Captain Darth, and his Hidel were next. The last thing he saw was reflected in his eyes: a final, blinding flash…

  Kingdom of Altaras. Occupation Camp "Hyperion."

  Lieutenant General Li Jacque stood on the roof of his temporary headquarters and surveyed the occupied capital. From this vantage point, Le Brias looked almost peaceful. But it was an illusion. Li Jacque saw not majestic architecture, but nodes of resistance. He saw not a port, but a vulnerable point in his defenses. His gaze drifted further east, where his engineers were hastily constructing a runway for the wyvern lords—a staging ground for a future strike on the Kingdom of Sios. And this sight filled his heart with a cold anxiety.

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  He turned to his officers, who were gathered around a map spread out on a massive wooden table.

  "In the Kingdom of Fenn, our forces suffered a crushing defeat," he began with icy seriousness. "An entire fleet. An entire legion. Vanished. What do you gentlemen believe caused this?"

  The officers exchanged nervous glances. His chief of staff, a captain, was the first to dare an answer.

  "This defeat is shrouded in mystery, General. For an enemy to overcome a force of that scale, they must surpass us in everything—in numbers and in quality. But who in these barbarian lands is capable of such a feat?"

  Li Jacque fixed him with a heavy stare.

  "Perhaps our 'dearest friends' from the civilized zones contributed to this outcome?" he asked with grim irony.

  A tense silence fell. One of the young officers, turning pale, whispered uncertainly:

  "You… you think it was Mu, General?"

  Li Jacque, gripping the goblet in his hand, replied with clear irritation:

  "Their ships resemble those built in Mu. And it was Mu who were the first to recognize these Russian barbarians as our equals. This could be part of their cunning strategy."

  "But, General, that's impossible," another officer protested with alarm. "Altaras is much closer to our Empire than Fenn. Mu would never dare to attack us so close to our borders. It would be suicide."

  Li Jacque seemed unsatisfied with these arguments. He took a deep breath and, walking to the edge of the roof, looked out at the ships-of-the-line anchored in the port.

  "Nothing calms the nerves quite like the sight of our hundred-gun ships," he said with feigned admiration, trying to convince himself more than his officers. "The pride of our Empire and His Majesty. They are the guarantee of our tranquility."

  The officers, following his unspoken example, also turned their gazes to the roadstead. There, rocking on the lazy swell, stood their unbreakable wall—twenty ships-of-the-line. Their massive hulls and tall, proud masts inspired a sense of eternity and unshakable order. But this idyll did not last long.

  "Look! The flagship! The Spar!" one of the officers suddenly shouted.

  Li Jacque snapped his spyglass to his eyes. He didn't have time to see exactly what was happening on the deck. He only had time to see the hundred-gun ship-of-the-line, the Spar, the pride of his squadron, simply… vanish. Without any warning. In its place, as if from the depths of the sea, a gigantic, pulsating fireball full of debris and smoke erupted. The deafening roar of the explosion reached them several seconds later, striking their ears and making the ground beneath their feet shudder. Before they could recover, the neighboring eighty-gun ship met the same fate.

  "I-it's… an enemy attack!" Li Jacque gasped. His mind refused to comprehend. An attack? From where?! There was no enemy fleet, no wyverns. Only the empty, serene sea. "All units! To arms! Take up defensive positions around the port perimeter! Immediately!"

  The soldiers in the camp, driven mad by the incomprehensible threat, scrambled to their positions. But panic spread faster than their drill training could take effect. A few agonizing minutes later, their entire fleet-of-the-line in the roadstead had been methodically, ship by ship, turned into blazing funeral pyres.

  And then hell came from the heavens. A low, growing hum escalated into a deafening roar, and the camp was blanketed by deadly salvos. This was not a chaotic bombardment. This was a surgical strike. Russian Su-34 fighter-bombers, flying at treetop level, struck pre-scouted targets with pinpoint accuracy. Ammunition dumps, food stores, command tents—all of it erupted into fiery mushroom clouds.

  "AIRSTRIKE! IT'S THEIR MECHANICAL AIRCRAFT! MU IS ATTACKING US! EVERYONE TAKE COVER!" one of the soldiers screamed, and this cry, full of despair and a mistaken identification of the enemy, was the last straw. Discipline collapsed. The camp plunged into absolute, uncontrollable chaos.

  Lieutenant General Li Jacque, deafened and concussed, lay on the ground, covered in dirt and debris. He struggled to raise his head, and in his dust-caked eyes, the crimson glow of the fires was reflected. His world was crumbling. His army, his fleet—everything he had believed in—was turning to ash. The last thing he saw was the dark, predatory silhouette of a Russian fighter banking for a final, confirmatory strike on his temporary headquarters. The shockwave from the aerial bomb's explosion simply erased him from existence, leaving not even a trace.

  Meanwhile, the destroyers Nastoychivy and Admiral Ushakov, having finished clearing the roadstead, completely blockaded the port. Within an hour, the overwhelming majority of the Parpaldian forces on the island had been eliminated. Those who survived were left without command, without ammunition, without food. Their fighting spirit was not just broken—it was annihilated.

  It was at that moment that Captain Rial, receiving a single word—"Now!"—over a secure channel from the Russian SSO, raised the ancient, arrow-pierced flag of the Kingdom of Altaras over the roof of his headquarters. This signal, like a spark in a powder keg, set off a chain reaction across the city. From cellars, from ruins, from every alley, hundreds of resistance fighters poured out with a desperate battle cry. The streets of Le Brias turned into the field of the final battle. The clang of steel, the rare crack of captured arquebuses, and furious shouts filled the air. The Altarans, drunk on sudden hope and years of hatred, fought with the fury of berserkers, sweeping away the demoralized, will-to-resist-lost occupiers like a spring flood sweeps away rotten logs.

  After five hours of fierce street fighting, the last pockets of resistance from the Parpaldian army were crushed. The survivors either surrendered or were torn apart by the mob. Altaras was free.

  On the streets, among the still-smoldering ruins, spontaneous celebrations began. People wept, they laughed, they embraced each other and their rebel saviors. Over the central square, where that very morning the flag with the imperial dragons had flown, now proudly waved the flag of the reborn kingdom. The people, choking on tears of joy and grief, chanted:

  "LONG LIVE ALTARAS! LONG LIVE FREEDOM!"

  This victory became a turning point in Altaras's struggle for independence, paid for in blood, but heralding the beginning of a new, hopeful era for a once-enslaved people.

  Continent of Philades. The Parpaldia Empire. The Vassal Duchy of Kooze.

  Once a symbol of wealth and prosperity, the proud Kingdom of Kooze had rotted from within, like an old stump eaten by worms, under the oppressive rule of the Parpaldia Empire. In just twenty years of occupation, the flourishing kingdom had devolved into a squalid and impoverished vassal duchy. Its cities, once shining with lights and famed for their fairs, were now, like plague-ravaged villages, plunged into perpetual shadow, their inhabitants languishing in hopelessness and despair. Each new day, like a sophisticated torture, twisted their joints and minds, instilling in them more despair with every passing second. Each breath was a painful spasm in the lungs, as if they were filled not with air, but with dust from the roads where the conquerors' legions marched. Each step on their native soil was heavy with the weight of a convict's chains.

  The strong in spirit and body, like wild animals, broke free from this swamp of poverty, fleeing the country—some to the north, to the free kingdoms, some to the south, to the pirates, some to the sea, in hopes of finding a new life beyond the horizon. But the weak, like autumn flies, died of exhaustion, hunger, and disease, their bodies lying in filthy ditches for weeks because no one cared. Such was the price of imperial "order."

  Haki, like a cornered animal, descended once again into the suffocating, foul darkness of the mines. He was after the cursed magical gemstones that had once made his people rich but now stole their last strength. His father, a great warrior and mage from an ancient and powerful lineage, had gone to war with Parpaldia when Haki was just five years old. He remembered how his father had lifted him into his arms and said, "I will return with victory, my son. Protect your mother." But the forces of the small kingdom and the merciless empire were as unequal as a drop of rain and a storm wave. His father was killed in battle. His body was desecrated and burned at the stake like a mongrel dog. And his mother… his mother was raped as if she were a thing, not a person, and thrown into a garbage pit with her throat slit like useless trash.

  He, a child, was thrown into these cursed mines. One day, when he turned seventeen, his patience snapped. Like a feral beast, he tore out the throat of a daydreaming overseer and spat out a piece of his rotten flesh with hatred. The blame was pinned on the creatures that dwelt in the depths, and no investigation was conducted. From that day on, hatred, rage, and a bloody thrill, like a raging river, flooded Haki's heart. He felt alive. He, like a demon of vengeance, began to hunt his tormentors, killing them with his bare hands in the dark mine shafts. His nails turned into claws, and he sharpened his teeth on stones until they became fangs.

  However, over time, the Parpaldians, seeing how methodically and cunningly their overseers were dying, suspected it was not the work of some creature, but of a man driven into a corner. Haki was forced to cease his bloody hunt. And then the anger in his heart, like sand in the desert, began to recede, and in its place came a dead calm of despair, followed by an icy indifference. Haki, like a broken puppet, began to ask himself a question to which he himself found the bitter answer.

  "Why fight?"

  This question, cold and merciless as the blade of a guillotine, descended on his consciousness again and again, severing any glimmer of hope.

  "There's no point. The might of a superpower and our pathetic, trampled kingdom cannot be compared, any more than one can compare an ant crawling on the ground to an elephant about to crush it. Even if the will to be free awakens in the hearts of these broken people, and they, like birds in a cage, wish to take flight, it will change nothing. Between Parpaldia and us yawns an insurmountable chasm, like the abyss between heaven and hell."

  Haki found a moment of respite. He leaned his back against the cold, damp wall, his hands, covered in scrapes and ingrained dirt, trembling from hours of work with a pickaxe. He pulled an old, worn manareceiver from his pocket and activated it, wanting to escape this hopeless reality, if only for a moment.

  From the receiver, through the crackle of static, came the familiar, saccharine-sweet voice of a commercial host:

  "Gentlemen, how old do you think this beautiful countess is?"

  "Hmm, well… twenty-nine?" a second voice answered uncertainly.

  "Hahaha, no! She's sixty-nine! And it's all thanks to the rejuvenating lotion from the great life mage, Kandy Van Dayle! An ancient spell in a bottle…"

  Haki winced in disgust. This false, intrusive advertisement was as poisonous as the imperial rule itself—promising eternal youth to a world that was dying in agony. But suddenly, the broadcast was interrupted, and a stern, emotionless female voice spoke:

  "Urgent news. The Kingdom of Altaras, previously under occupation, has been liberated by local resistance forces with the support of the Russian Federation. The kingdom's independence has been restored."

  Haki flinched as if struck. He froze, pressing a hand to his chest, where his heart had begun to pound furiously beneath his ribs. Altaras. Free. Memories he had spent years trying to bury under layers of indifference burst forth like lava. He remembered the humiliation, the fear, and the helpless rage that had descended upon his homeland. He remembered how his beloved Kingdom had been turned into a staging ground, and his proud people into disenfranchised slaves.

  And then, in his mind, as if burned by fire, the words of King Taara, which he had heard in that very broadcast, flashed:

  "Parpaldia is not invincible! Rise up and fight for your freedom!"

  These words, like a bolt of lightning, reawakened Haki's long-dormant fury. Rage boiled in his veins, hot as magical energy, ready to erupt. He leaped to his feet, his eyes, previously dull, now blazed with a wild, primordial fire.

  And then, like a clap of thunder in a clear sky, through the crackle of static came an unknown, wild, rebellious Russian music that Haki had never heard before, igniting a long-sleeping and forgotten anger in his seemingly dead heart. Overwhelmed by the surging emotions, Haki's lips trembled like leaves in the wind. And down his coal-dust-streaked cheeks, carving dark paths, flowed hot, salty tears. Haki, like a dead man risen from the grave, came back to life. And in his eyes, that same fire he thought had been extinguished forever ignited again. The fire of hatred. But now, in it, there was a spark of hope.

  "If Altaras could do it… then so can we! Enough!"

  He slammed his fist against the stone wall, feeling no pain, and that dull thud, echoing through the dark mine, became his silent oath. The time of slavery was over. The time for vengeance had begun.

  Haki slowly rose, clenching his fists with such force that his nails dug into his calloused palms until they drew blood. The pain was sharp, real, and it was bringing him back to life. He could feel a long-forgotten strength, fueled by pure, concentrated hatred, filling his body. In his eyes, just a minute ago empty, a fire of determination blazed.

  "Time to act," he whispered to himself, clutching the now-priceless manareceiver in his hand.

  He knew perfectly well he couldn't do it alone. He needed to gather those who were not yet broken, who still believed, who were ready to take up not just a pickaxe, but a weapon, and to risk their miserable, enslaved lives for a ghost of a chance at freedom. His thoughts raced, forming a plan. He remembered his father's old friends, veterans of that last war. He remembered those who whispered in corners, cursing the occupiers. He would become the spark that would ignite a fire in their hearts.

  Thus began a new chapter in the lives of Haki and the Kingdom of Kooze. At first—small acts of sabotage, secret meetings. Then—open strikes against the occupiers. In the heart of every rebel, a fire grew, inspired by a distant victory brought to them by the mysterious Russia. The Empire did not yet know that in the dark mines of Kooze, in the hearts of broken slaves, a new, furious power was being born, one that would soon threaten its dominion over the entire continent.

  he Parpaldia Empire. Capital City of Esthirant. Private Estate of Lady Remille.

  Warm, humid steam, saturated with the rich aroma of essential oils, filled the spacious marble bathroom. Remille, leaning her head back against the soft headrest with pleasure, quietly hummed an aria from a popular imperial opera. Her alabaster skin glistened with moisture, and droplets of water, like diamonds, trickled down her shoulders. She slowly ran her hand through the warm, herb-infused water, savoring every second of peace and relaxation.

  "Soon, Esthirant will be the capital of the entire world," this thought crossed her mind, leaving a satisfied, predatory smile on her lips. She saw this future in every detail: conquered peoples, bowed before Ludius's throne, imperial flags over the palaces of Mirishial and Mu, and she, Remille, beside him—the future Empress Mother, ruling the world. It was only a matter of time and necessary cruelty.

  Remille slowly emerged from the gigantic bathtub, carved from a single piece of pink marble, stretched lazily, and threw on a heavy silk robe embroidered with golden dragons. She cast a fleeting glance at her reflection in the enormous Venetian mirror. Young. Beautiful. Powerful. Merciless. All of this was her. Imperial blood flowed in her veins, and she felt destined for absolute greatness.

  She had barely settled onto her huge, canopied bed when the velvety silence of her chambers was shattered by the sharp, insistent chirp of her personal manacomm. This vulgar sound tore through her serene tranquility.

  "What now?" she muttered with displeasure, gracefully raising her hand and activating the crystal on her platinum bracelet.

  "Your Imperial Highness! An urgent summons! I request your immediate presence at the First Department!" the anxious voice of Elto's deputy, Hans, sounded in her mind.

  Remille narrowed her eyes in annoyance.

  "Hans, if your 'urgency' turns out to be another bureaucratic trifle, I will personally twist your useless head off. Am I making myself clear?" her voice was quiet and cold, like the touch of an icy blade.

  "Yes… yes, Your Imperial Highness," the voice on the other end trembled noticeably, but replied with utmost respect.

  She irritably broke the magical connection. With sharp, precise, almost mechanical movements, she shed the heavy silk robe, and it slid silently onto the bearskin rug spread by her bed. She dressed quickly. This was not an outfit for balls or receptions. A severe, perfectly tailored black suit of thick Mirishial silk, which did not hide but emphasized her powerful status, like a second skin. It was designed not for seduction, but for domination. Draping a long, heavy imperial cloak over her shoulders, its gold embroidery depicting two fire-breathing dragons, she left her chambers. Behind her trailed the scent of expensive, tart perfume and the faint but tangible chill of her aura. She was already mentally composing the cold, methodical verbal lashing she would give Hans for this inappropriate urgency, completely unaware that this summons was the beginning of the end of her perfect world, built on the bones of her enemies.

  The First Department was located in the most fortified and inaccessible part of the imperial palace—in its stone heart, where only the chosen were permitted. To reach it, Remille had to pass through the Hall of Triumphs—an endless marble corridor where the floor, polished to a mirror sheen, reflected the high lancet windows like dark, still water. From the walls, from gigantic, time-blackened canvases, the stern faces of past emperors stared down at her, and their painted eyes seemed to follow her every step, silently approving of her cruelty and determination. The Imperial Household guards in their red and black uniforms froze into stone statues at her approach, not daring to lift their gaze.

  Finally, she reached her destination. Massive bronze doors, two men high, blocked her path. Every inch of their surface was covered with the finest engraving, depicting the great victories of the Empire: the burning of the old Altaras fleet, the subjugation of the northern tribes, the forced "pacification" of the Kingdom of Kuze. This was not just a door. It was an iconostasis of their faith in their own superiority. Remille walked quickly, and the sharp, echoing clap of her heels on the marble slabs was not just the sound of footsteps. It was the sound of approaching power, a metronome counting down the final seconds of someone's peace.

  As she entered, she met the tense, almost frightened gazes of the audience. Here, in the hall of the military council, all the key figures of the Empire gathered: the head of the First Department of Elto, the Supreme Commander of Arde, and the heads of intelligence and the Navy.

  "Go ahead." And I believe that this is really important," she said coldly, taking her place at the head of the table.

  Arde, white-haired and powerful as an old lion, stepped forward.

  —Your Imperial Highness, we have received information that changes everything.

  "Don't take too long, General,— Remille impatiently tapped her slender fingers on the polished tabletop.

  — Altaras. They rebelled. And, apparently, not without the help of an external force.… Of the Russian Federation.

  There was a ringing silence in the room. Remille's face remained calm, but her eyes narrowed into two icy slits.

  — The Russian Federation? — she said, putting all her boundless contempt into these words. "How dare this rabble of barbarians from the edge of the world interfere in our affairs?"

  — We don't have enough data yet, but apparently they provided them with military assistance. Their actions are clearly aimed at challenging our dominance," the general replied in a hollow voice.

  — Altaras. This pathetic worm dared to crawl out from under our feet. And now these Russian savages are stretching their dirty paws to our lands?

  She looked around with a heavy gaze at those present, and each of them physically felt the pressure of her icy will.

  — What is the plan of action? Her voice was as cold as steel.

  —Yes, Your Highness." We have already developed several scenarios. The main one provides for the immediate mobilization of all reserve fleets and legions to launch an all-out strike on Altaras and Fenn.

  "Go ahead,— she cut him short. —But I want Altaras wiped off the face of the earth." So that the very memory of it becomes a cautionary tale for naughty children. So that no one would ever dare to repeat their mistake again.

  With these words, Remille, without deigning to take another look at them, left the council chamber. Stepping out onto a secluded balcony, she looked down at the sprawling city of Estirant below her. From this height, he seemed as majestic and invulnerable as she was.

  "Estirant will really be the capital of this world soon," she whispered, clutching the cold marble balustrade. "And no one." No one can stop it.

  However, this feeling of absolute superiority did not last long. Forty minutes later, when Remille crossed the threshold of the First Department of Foreign Affairs, the atmosphere thickened dramatically.

  There was an oppressive silence in the office of the head of the First Department, Elto. The air seemed heavy, almost leaden, and the faces of the department heads lined up in front of the table were pale and tense, as if they had already attended their own funeral. Remille, entering the office with the casual but menacing look of a predator who smelled fear, looked at everyone with an icy gaze. Without waiting for an invitation, she sat down possessively in Elto's chair, at his own desk. Her sharp, penetrating eyes immediately took note of the stack of parchments in front of her.

  "Your Imperial Highness, please take a look."… This is an urgent message... Elto began, trying to keep his voice level, but the telltale tremor in his vocal cords gave him away.

  Remille leisurely, with theatrical laziness, took the sheets. But as she scanned the first few lines, her expression began to change rapidly. Her brows drew together, her lips pressed into a thin, angry line, and her fingers, clutching the documents, trembled with barely restrained rage. What she read didn't just unsettle her, it infuriated her.

  "What the hell did you bring me, Elto?" "Stop it!" she hissed, suddenly looking up. Her gaze could have burned through metal.

  The voice, which was getting louder and fiercer by the second, broke the silence of the office.:

  — HOW COULD WE BE DEFEATED BY SOME BARBARIC, UNCIVILIZED COUNTRY?! HOW?!

  Remille slammed her fist down on the table, making the subordinates flinch.

  "Do you even know what that means?" It took us decades to crush the resistance in our colonies, and now you're bringing THIS to me?!

  Crumpling the report into a tight ball, she threw it against the wall with all her might.

  "Is your head getting too heavy for your shoulders, Elto?!" Her scream echoed through the room.

  The head of the First Department tried to justify himself by opening his mouth, but Remille didn't give him a chance.:

  — Silence! I don't want to hear your pathetic excuses! She cut him off abruptly. — We have always believed that our troops are invincible! And now we've been kicked in the face! Again! Why are you looking at me like a beaten dog?!

  Elto, growing paler by the second, desperately tried to get in a word.:

  "Your Imperial Highness, our army is strong, but...

  "But what?" Remille seized on his words, slowly getting up and coming so close to him that he involuntarily took a step back. She looked down at him, and there was pure, concentrated madness in her eyes.

  "These.".. The barbarians... they used flying machines similar to the mechanical planes of Mu. They attacked our positions from the sky..." Elto finally managed to squeeze out.

  Remille stopped abruptly, freezing in place. Her icy gaze seemed to pierce through the official.

  "Flying machines?" Are you sure?

  —Yes, Your Imperial Highness,— Elto nodded hurriedly, swallowing the lump in his throat with difficulty. "According to the survivors' reports... we assume that the Mu secretly transferred their technology or even finished planes to these Russians. This explains their advantage. It is quite possible that Mu is waging a proxy war against us, using Russia as a battering ram.

  Remille was silent for a moment. Her gaze was unfocused, heading somewhere outside the window, but her thoughts were working feverishly. Elto's theory was like a lifeline in a sea of absurdity. She explained everything. She returned the world to the familiar, understandable framework of the geopolitics of superpowers. They didn't lose to the pathetic barbarians. They became victims of the vile betrayal of another force equal to them.

  "That explains everything.".. — she said almost with relief, slowly turning to the rest of the audience. — Amazing audacity... And the arrogance of their ambassadors...

  She returned to the table and sat down at the head again, but now the madness in her eyes was gone, replaced by the cold, calculating gleam of a predator seeing prey.

  "Call Ambassador Mu to me immediately. I want to look into the eyes of this traitor. I want to find out how far their dirty games have gone.

  "As you command, Your Imperial Highness,— Elto replied softly, bowing his head.

  As soon as Remille left the office, the head of the First Department hurriedly dismissed everyone present, wanting to be left alone. Once in silence, he sighed heavily, feeling in his gut that this was only the beginning of a real, major storm that could drown them all.

  At that moment, Remille was no longer seething with impotent rage as she walked through the echoing corridors of the imperial palace. Her mind, cold and sharp as a scalpel, was already considering various strategies for retaliation and diplomatic pressure.

  "If they think they can humiliate Parpaldia so easily," she thought, clenching her fists painfully, "they will soon realize that this was their biggest and last mistake in this world."

  The wide doors of her private office slammed shut behind her. Remille rushed to her desk, which was littered with maps. For her, the war has ceased to be just a war — it has become a personal matter.

  The mansion of Lord Kaios.

  Lord Kaios's mansion was steeped in a dark, restrained splendor. There was none of the gaudy gilding of the imperial palace here. Only heavy velvet curtains that muffled the noise of the capital, the dim light of candelabras, and the living, crackling fire in the hearth. The lord himself, sat at a massive oak table, lazily puffing on an expensive cigarillo. His gaze was focused on the dispatch his servant had just brought him.

  "Give it here," he said curtly, without looking at the attendant.

  The servant, bowing obediently, handed over the scroll and, after another bow, silently withdrew.

  Kaios carefully broke the wax seal, unrolled the heavy parchment, and quickly scanned the text, written in his agent in Altaras's encrypted code. As he read, his thin lips stretched into a crooked, mirthless smirk. But his eyes remained as cold as a winter's night.

  The message confirmed it: the Kingdom of Altaras had been liberated. The news brought him mixed feelings. On the one hand, alarm, as this would inevitably trigger a chain reaction in the other colonies. On the other, a dark, almost gloating satisfaction. Kaios, unlike the imperial elite blinded by pride, had long believed that the Empire had gone too far in its arrogance and greed.

  He leaned back in his chair, releasing a thick cloud of aromatic smoke. Kaios's gaze drifted to the mantelpiece.

  "Ah, Remille, Remille… my dear girl, how foolish you are," he muttered to himself, his lips twisting into a half-smile full of sarcasm and infinite weariness.

  This woman, once a clever and promising aristocrat, had transformed into a cruel tyrant, detached from reality. Her decision to declare a genocidal war on the Russians—a move Kaios considered not just madness, but state suicide. Russia was not just another "barbarian country." It was a superpower from his old world, capable of single-handedly wiping not just Parpaldia, but this entire continent, from the face of the earth.

  He rose and, walking to the bar, poured himself not wine, but a glass of neat, strong whiskey—a drink whose taste reminded him of his past life. Taking the glass, he went to the window, looking out at the Esthirant night. The city glittered with lights, but behind this facade of grandeur, he saw deep cracks that were widening with each passing day. And he, Alexei Borisovich Belov, Lord Kaios, understood that if he did not intervene, these cracks would soon become an abyss that would swallow them all.

  Kaios understood that it was his duty, his obligation, to preserve the integrity of this Empire, to prevent its collapse, which, as he now clearly saw, was becoming more inevitable with each day. He had long since stopped believing in the foolish slogans about "Esthirant's great destiny" and the "divine right to rule the world." Instead, he believed in cold calculation, strategy, and ruthless efficiency.

  "Well then," he said quietly, looking at his reflection in the dark glass of the window. "If no one else will stop this insane power, leading the country into the abyss, then I will have to do it myself."

  He returned to the table, sat down, and took out a clean sheet of heavy parchment. On it, with swift, practiced movements, he began to sketch the outlines of a strategic plan—not just a coup, but a plan for salvation. Neutralize Remille and her party of "hawks," isolate Emperor Ludius without spilling his sacred blood, and immediately, in that very hour, approach the Russians with an offer of unconditional surrender.

  A direct confrontation with Remille was suicide. He decided to play a more subtle game, using her own arrogance and rage against her. Kaios knew that in his Third Department, there were men fanatically loyal to him personally. Men capable of carrying out the most delicate of tasks.

  "A second homeland," he said quietly, almost inaudibly, as if addressing his past. "I will not let these idiots destroy you too."

  Finished with his writing, Kaios placed several short, encrypted orders into envelopes and sealed them with his personal seal. Then he summoned his most trusted servant—a silent assassin whom he had once saved from the imperial execution block.

  "These letters—to the addressees' hands only. Personally."

  The servant, bowing, dissolved into the shadows. Kaios was left alone in the silence of his study. He leaned back in his chair, gazing at the glowing embers in the fireplace.

  "The game is on," he said quietly, and in his eyes flashed that same predatory expression that so terrified his enemies. The expression of a Soviet special services officer, beginning his final and most important operational combination.

  The Imperial Palace. The Throne Room.

  Ludius the First of Parpaldia listened to Elto's report in silence. His face was as impenetrable as the mask of an ancient god, but behind that mask, a storm raged, which he struggled to contain. Every word from the lord—"defeat," "rebellion," "Russia"—reverberated in his soul like a hammer striking an anvil, pushing him toward a decision that would affirm his power and show everyone who the true master of this world was.

  When Elto finished his report, Emperor Ludius slammed his fist on the armrest of the throne with such force that a thin crack spiderwebbed across the polished mahogany.

  "UNFORGIVABLE!" he roared, his voice like a tempest. "TAKE BACK ALTARAS! CRUSH THE RESISTANCE! LEAVE NO STONE UNTURNED! Your diplomatic overtures, your desire to preserve their pathetic 'pride,' have brought shame upon the entire Empire! Enough of this hypocrisy! Enough of mercy! Act with cruelty! With lightning speed! MOBILIZE ALL RESOURCES! TEACH A VISIBLE, BLOODY LESSON TO ALL OUR OTHER VASSALS! THE EMPIRE DOES NOT FORGIVE BETRAYAL!"

  The words that erupted from the emperor's mouth echoed through the hall, making even the heavy tapestries on the walls tremble. Ludius looked down at Elto, his gaze filled with such an icy, absolute certainty in his own righteousness that the lord dared not even raise his eyes. He, one of the most intelligent men in the Empire, understood the full madness of this order, but could only bow his head and whisper:

  "As you command, Your Imperial Majesty."

  Shaken to his core, Elto dropped to one knee, bowing his head so low his forehead almost touched the cold marble.

  "It will be done, Your Imperial Ma—" Elto didn't dare meet his sovereign's eyes, his reply was brief but filled with a resolve, as if he were swearing a blood oath.

  The Emperor slowly rose from his throne. Taking a step forward, he pointed to the exit with a commanding, almost casual gesture.

  "Go. And do not make me repeat myself."

  Lord Elto, without raising his head, hastily exited the hall, backing away as if afraid to turn his back on an enraged deity. Ludius stood for a long time in the middle of the vast, echoing hall, lost in his thoughts. He knew that this moment would go down in history. But in his heart, there were no doubts. Altaras would be retaken. At any cost. And anyone who dared to stand in the way of the Empire would feel the full might of its unbreakable, sacred wrath.