The Parpaldia Empire.

  Capital City of Esthirant.

  The Main Imperial Square.

  A cold, damp wind from the sea blew scraps of garbage and pieces of yesterday's decrees across the enormous square, paved with gray stone. Thousands of people, herded here by order of the provisional government, were crammed into a silent, gray mass. A thick, almost tangible tension hung in the air, like the moment before an execution.

  The corners of the square were silently cordoned off not by the Imperial Guard in their crimson uniforms, but by the angular, alien silhouettes of Russian BTR-82A armored personnel carriers. Their gray-green camouflage seemed unnatural against the backdrop of the imperial architecture, and the barrels of their 30mm cannons stared impassively at the crowd, serving as a silent reminder of who was now the true master of this city.

  "What are they doing?" asked a young clerk named Theo, watching with nervous curiosity as imperial soldiers set up strange devices—large horns connected to shimmering magic crystals.

  "Putting on a show," a nearby old man named Horst, a former shipwright, replied quietly. His face was etched with wrinkles, like an old map. "Now they're going to tell us how valiantly we lost."

  "We couldn't have lost! How could our great Empire lose to some barbarians?!" Theo flared up, clenching his fists.

  "Quiet, pup!" the old man hissed, glancing nervously at the frozen figures of the military police. "Or do you want to end your day in a cellar? Look around. See those green carriages without horses? That's your answer."

  "Damned demons," Theo whispered, but with boiling rage. "It's all their sorcery. Cursed, unholy magic!"

  Meanwhile, the soldiers finished the setup. With an unpleasant crackle and hiss, the magic amplifiers came to life. And then, a familiar but now powerless voice, amplified by magic to an inhuman volume, echoed across the square:

  "Greetings, my loyal subjects. We, Ludius the First of Parpaldia, your emperor…"

  The crowd froze.

  "…do hereby abdicate the throne of the Parpaldia Empire…"

  A collective, stifled gasp passed through the crowd like a shockwave. Every word from the horns struck like a hammer blow.

  "…We relinquish our powers as the supreme authority in favor of Lord Kaios. This is due to our fatal errors in domestic and foreign policy… our excessive arrogance and foolish pride. For the first time in two hundred years, we have suffered a crushing defeat…"

  The words hung in the air like heavy smoke. An elderly woman in the crowd began to weep silently, covering her face with her hands. An old veteran, standing at attention, swallowed hard but did not move.

  "…Therefore, I am stepping down. I hope my regent, Lord Kaios, can lead our nation out of the abyss into which I have plunged it…"

  The voice fell silent. For a moment, an absolute, dead silence descended, as if the city had held its breath. And then, another man's voice came from the amplifiers. His voice was calm, confident, and utterly alien. The voice not of an aristocrat, but of a manager. The voice of a new era.

  "I now yield the floor to the Regent of Parpaldia, Lord Kaios…"

  The square waited, holding its breath. No one left. Everyone understood that they were witnessing not just a change of power. They were witnessing the death of their Empire.

  "…The war between the Russian Federation and the Parpaldia Empire was a fatal mistake. A mistake for which we have already paid too high a price. Due to the shortsightedness of our previous government, seventy-two vassal states have declared their independence and risen in rebellion…"

  At first, a low, disbelieving murmur went through the crowd, and then it began to swell into an angry roar.

  "If the war had continued, we would have lost everything. Therefore, the new government has made a difficult but solely correct decision: to cease fire and conclude a peace treaty with the Russian Federation…"

  "WHAT?! SURRENDER?!" someone in the crowd screamed. "Never! We are a superpower! They have humiliated us, and you want to grovel before them?!"

  "Yeah!" other voices immediately chimed in. "Fight to the last man!"

  The crowd stirred, like a roused beast. Some shouted, others fell silent and grew grim, and a third group, the most cautious, began to slowly back away towards the edges of the square, sensing trouble.

  "Fight for victory! For the Emperor and the Empire!"

  "ENOUGH!" suddenly, a rough, weary voice, full of pain, cut through the noise. A man in a torn and dirty soldier's uniform pushed his way out of the crowd. His face was covered in fresh, still-unhealed scratches, and his eyes burned with the feverish fire of a man who had looked into hell. He turned to the loudest screamer, a young merchant in fine clothes.

  "What are you talking about, you rear-echelon rat?! Have you ever held anything heavier than a sack of coins?! Do you know what it's like to watch your friend get blown to pieces right in front of you?! While you were here, warm and comfortable, trading at the market, we were out there in Fenn, in the mud and blood, trying to stop their iron monsters!"

  The crowd fell silent instantly, stunned by the fury and pain in his voice.

  "You can't even imagine in your worst nightmare what it's like to fight them! To them, we're not soldiers! We're targets at a shooting range! If we continue the war, they will burn this city, and with it, all of us, our homes, our families, everything! They are stronger! Understand that, finally! They. Are. Just. Stronger!"

  His words, like a spark, fell on gunpowder. Shouts, shoves, and insults erupted with new force. The square seethed like a volcano on the verge of eruption. The sensible people had long since left, fearing a bloodbath was about to begin. Those who remained had finally split into two camps.

  And against the backdrop of this escalating chaos, Kaios's voice from the manacomms continued to broadcast, cold, detached, almost indifferent:

  "…Seventy-three former vassal states have formed an anti-imperial coalition and have declared war on us. It took my government enormous effort to achieve a ceasefire. For the sake of preserving the integrity of our empire, we will coexist with the Russian Federation. I believe that together, we can withstand these trials…"

  These words were the final straw. They were perceived as the ultimate, irrevocable betrayal.

  "NO!" roared the same merchant who had been riling up the crowd. His voice broke, and his face was contorted with fanatical rage. "Overthrow the usurper! We will restore the greatness of our nation!"

  "Stop talking nonsense! Shut up!" the veteran roared back at him, clenching his fists so hard his knuckles turned white. "It's because of people like you that our boys died! We won't let you loudmouths in the rear destroy our empire completely!"

  That was the signal. Loud shouts escalated into a full-blown brawl. People, like crazed animals, threw themselves at each other. The "war to the end" supporters—mostly young townspeople who had never seen war—clashed with those who understood the full horror of defeat. Blows rained down everywhere. Cries of pain mixed with furious threats.

  "CEASE!" a sharp, metallic shout, amplified by a manacomm, rang out. The voice belonged to a military police officer. "Cease these disturbances immediately! Or we will use force!"

  The crowd didn't hear him. It was deafened by its own rage. Ranks of soldiers in black uniforms and heavy helmets, holding long wooden batons with metal tips, began to advance toward the epicenter of the fight, their steps measured. Their faces were impassive, their movements practiced.

  The commander, a tall man with graying temples, gave a short, curt order: "Beat the most violent ones! Maim, but do not kill!"

  And then, seeing that the crowd was not dispersing, a second order followed: "Stun grenades! Ready! FIRE!"

  Small metal spheres rained down into the thick of the brawlers. They exploded, flooding the square with a blinding-white, unbearable light and a deafening, ear-splitting roar. The crowd froze for a moment. Many fell to their knees, covering their eyes and ears, blinded and stunned.

  And at that moment, the soldiers charged. They moved as a single mechanism, cutting off the most aggressive groups and quickly neutralizing them. The wooden batons descended with dull, wet thuds on backs, legs, and shoulders. The most defiant were thrown to the ground and immediately bound, their curses ignored.

  The speech of Kaios and the abdication of Ludius, broadcast throughout the empire, came as a shock to the people of Parpaldia. But the realization did not come at once. People first wept, then cursed, and the most desperate fought. Some, with tears in their eyes, accepted the bitter truth as inevitable. Others, blinded by pride, stubbornly refused to believe. But the fact remained: the great and invincible Parpaldia Empire had lost. Its imperial pride, nourished for centuries by victories, was cracking at the seams. And this day became a day of its shame and the beginning of a new, humiliating era. The era of survival.

  One Week Later.

  Russian Federation.

  Moscow.

  Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

  In the Foreign Minister's high-ceilinged office, bathed in the evening sun, a silence reigned, broken only by the quiet rustle of papers. Andrei Maksimovich Sokolov, the head of the MFA's Analytical Department, entered the room. In his hands was not parchment, but a slim, ruggedized tablet.

  "Georgy Borisovich, permission to report. An operational summary of the situation on the Philades continent," he began without preamble, projecting a three-dimensional model of the region onto the large interactive screen on the wall.

  Minister Vorontsov nodded, his gaze fixed on the map, where the crimson stain of the former Parpaldia Empire was now surrounded by a ring of dozens of new, independent states.

  "Our expectations have been fully justified. Regent Kaios, with the support of our military advisors, is effectively managing the restoration of order. All major pockets of resistance loyal to the old regime have been suppressed. Tribunals for war criminals have begun. Remille herself is already giving testimony in Lefortovo."

  Vorontsov listened intently, nodding.

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  "The former vassal states, liberated from Parpaldia's control, are gradually restoring their governments. Most of them, including Altaras, Kuze, and even Riem, have already officially expressed their desire to immediately establish diplomatic relations with us and are requesting protection and economic aid."

  "Good work, Andrei Maksimovich," the Minister finally took off his glasses, wearily polished them, and looked at his subordinate. "You and your people have done an excellent job."

  He paused, gazing out the window at the sprawling, glittering lights of Moscow below. "One headache is over. But now we have seventy-two new ones. We cannot allow chaos to arise from the ruins of one empire. Prepare proposals for the formation of a new coalition, an 'Alliance of Free Nations,' under our patronage. We need order."

  "Already on it, Georgy Borisovich."

  "Excellent. You're dismissed."

  Sokolov was already heading for the exit, but the Minister stopped him.

  "And, Andrei Maksimovich… enough with Parpaldia. Reassign your best analysts to the west."

  Rodenius Continent.

  Kingdom of Quila.

  Russian-Controlled Territory.

  Corrective Labor Camp CLC-1 ("Vostochny" – Eastern).

  This city had become a sinister symbol of the new order imposed upon the former superpower. It was situated on the border of the Kingdom of Quila and the Principality of Qua-Toyne, in a harsh mountain landscape where a cold wind constantly swept across the steep slopes, carrying with it dust and despair. When Russian geologists discovered the richest deposits of osmium here—a metal essential for their high-tech industry—ITL-1 sprang up in record time. A mine-city, a prison-city, surrounded by a double perimeter of twelve-foot concrete walls topped with electrified concertina wire. At the corners, guard towers with machine gun nests, searchlights, and thermal imagers rose. An escape attempt was not just reckless—it was mathematically impossible.

  Here, in the depths of the mountain, two thousand Parpaldian prisoners of war labored. Once the proud soldiers and officers of an invincible empire, they now, day after day, in filth and semi-darkness, extracted ore. The conditions were harsh, but not lethal. No one died of starvation or senseless brutality. Russia demonstrated a cold, almost detached, humanity.

  "Attention all prisoners of war of the Parpaldia Empire!" a sharp voice, amplified by loudspeakers, cut through the monotonous clang of pickaxes. "Yesterday, at 18:00 Moscow time, the government of Parpaldia and the government of the Russian Federation concluded a peace treaty. The war is over. In five months, your repatriation to your homeland will begin. Remember: diligent labor is the best way to atone for your guilt and hasten the day of your liberation!"

  These words caused a veritable explosion of emotions. Young soldiers shouted with joy, hugged each other, and wept. The old veterans, however, stood in silence, trying to process what they had heard.

  Among them, leaning on his pickaxe, stood the former commander-in-chief of the fleet, General Cius. His shoulders, once squared with imperial pride, were now slumped, and his aristocratic face, covered in a layer of ingrained dirt, was gaunt. He slowly took off his work glove and wiped away a traitorous tear that had rolled down his cheek. He had been prepared for the worst. When he was captured after the destruction of his fleet, he was sure: torture, humiliation, and a show execution awaited him. But none of that happened. Instead of a torture chamber, he was given a pickaxe and a uniform with a number. He lived in the same barracks as his sailors, slept on the same hard bunks, and ate the same tasteless but high-calorie food. Sometimes, he received blows from the guards' batons—but always deservedly, for a breach of discipline or arguing with the convoy. And this treatment, this cold, almost indifferent justice, humiliated him far more than any torture. He was not being tormented. He was simply being… used. As a resource. And in that was the highest degree of contempt, to which, it seemed to him, he could not even respond with hatred.

  "Cius!" a familiar voice called out to him. It was Reckmeyer, one of the Empire's best knight-riders, who had once served under him in an elite aviation group. Here, in the faceless gray of the camp uniforms, all former subordination had been erased. They were no longer a general and a captain. They were just prisoners, addressing each other by their names, as if all ranks and titles had been left behind, in a past life that would never return.

  "We're going home soon, Cius! Did you hear? To our homeland!" Reckmeyer, despite his emaciated appearance, looked almost happy. His eyes, usually dull, burned with hope.

  "Yes…" the general replied quietly, his gaze fixed on his glass of murky fruit drink. "In five months." He paused, as if gathering his thoughts, and then, almost in a whisper, added, speaking more to himself: "But have we atoned for our guilt? Have we answered for the catastrophe into which we plunged the Empire?"

  Reckmeyer placed his heavy hand on his shoulder. "Cius. Don't you dare say that. After this fatal mistake, our Empire will need men like you more than ever. Experienced. Those who have seen this… new kind of war with their own eyes. You must return. To help rebuild what can still be saved. To teach those who come after us not to repeat our mistakes."

  The general slowly raised his eyes. On his face, for the first time in long months of captivity, a faint, barely perceptible, bitter smile appeared. "Thank you, Reckmeyer," he said quietly.

  At that moment, the din in the mess hall was cut short by a sharp, amplified shout. "Lunch is over! Everyone out! Form up for deployment to the mine! Move it!" a guard roared, demonstratively holding a short, pump-action MP-133 shotgun, which in their eyes looked like an ugly but deadly artifact. Their quiet conversation was rudely interrupted by the clatter of metal and the guard's booming voice. Lunch was over.

  Obeying an instinct honed over months of captivity, hundreds of gray figures, former soldiers and officers, silently rose from their seats. The murmur of voices was replaced by the shuffling of boots and the clanking of empty bowls. Once again, like a will-less river, they flowed into the dark, cold depths of the mine. But now, everything was different. In their downcast gazes, there was no longer absolute hopelessness. Now they knew: in five months, this hell would end. They would return home. The only question was what awaited them there.

  General Cius, stepping out of the stuffy mess hall under the open, gray sky, stopped for a moment. He raised his head and looked at the heavy, leaden clouds. It was the same sky as over his homeland. But would the homeland be the same when he stepped on its soil again? He would not return a hero. He would return as a symbol of the greatest shame in the Empire's history. What awaited him? A tribunal? Oblivion? Or, perhaps, an even more terrible fate—the necessity of looking into the eyes of the widows and orphans of those he had led to a senseless slaughter?

  With a heavy sigh, he, along with the remnants of his once-invincible army, turned and stepped into the hungry, dark maw of the mine.

  Russian Federation.

  Moscow.

  The Kremlin.

  Security Council Meeting Room.

  In the spacious chamber, where the fate of a new world was being decided around a massive oval table of polished Karelian oak, there was an atmosphere of restrained triumph. The tall, lancet windows overlooked the snow-covered Alexander Garden, and on the walls, in gilded frames, hung portraits of great commanders and statesmen of the past, who seemed to gaze down upon their successors with silent approval.

  President Romanov stood and surveyed the assembly—ministers, generals, heads of intelligence agencies—with a calm but firm gaze.

  "Gentlemen, I congratulate you, and through you, all of Russia, on the successful completion of the kinetic phase of Operation 'Retribution.' The chaos has been stopped," he said with restraint, but his voice held genuine pride.

  The hall responded with short but unified applause. It was not a thunderous ovation—it was the applause of professionals, tired but satisfied with their work.

  When the sound subsided, the President continued: "Georgy Borisovich, report on the political outcomes."

  The Minister of Foreign Affairs, Georgy Borisovich Vorontsov, a stately man with ash-gray hair, cleared his throat and stood.

  "Following the sudden demise of Ludius under 'unexplained circumstances' during the coup, negotiations with the regent, Lord Kaios, have been constructive. Parpaldia has agreed to pay reparations to the Kingdom of Fenn and the Kingdom of Altaras in the amount of three hundred million pasae (approximately 27 billion rubles)—from the assets confiscated from the old aristocracy guilty of starting the war."

  He paused, allowing those present to grasp the scale of the figures.

  "Our primary objective was to prevent the complete collapse of the Parpaldian state. We do not need chaos on our borders. Therefore, the government's economic bloc is already working with Regent Kaios, which has allowed our exporters to enter their domestic market. As for the military outcomes: the Empire has been stripped of all its colonies, its army has been reduced to a 200,000-strong military force with no right to possess offensive armaments or a navy. The richest territories of the former empire have been brought under the control of our Peacekeeping Contingent, which is acting as an intermediary between Parpaldia and the newly independent states."

  "Thank you, Georgy Borisovich," the President nodded. "What about the other superpowers? The Holy Mirishial Empire? Gra Valkas?"

  Vorontsov thought for a moment.

  "A constructive dialogue has been established with Mirishial. Their delegation will be arriving in Moscow soon. As for Gra Valkas… the situation is more complex. They are ignoring all our attempts to establish contact through third countries. Their embassy in Mu is silent. It is a brick wall."

  The President frowned slightly. The victory over Parpaldia was important, but it had only cleared the board for a game with truly serious players. The game was just beginning.

  "Understood. Thank you, Georgy Borisovich. Valentin Eduardovich, report on the progress of global planetary exploration," the President shifted his gaze to the head of Roscosmos.

  Valentin Eduardovich, an elderly man with intelligent, lively eyes, rose from his seat. His face shone with the undisguised pleasure of a scientist who had been given the chance to report on the greatest discovery in human history.

  "We have launched six of the twenty-four planned reconnaissance satellites, Mikhail Viktorovich. Although this is not yet enough for full coverage, the data we've received already exceeds all our expectations. This planet… it's simply vast."

  He turned on the projector, and a map of the New World was displayed on the interactive screen.

  "Twelve thousand kilometers to our east, across the ocean, we have discovered a previously unknown ghost continent. Its habitability is still in question, but the archipelago off its coast is a true kaleidoscope of civilizations. And beyond a massive mountain range to the south, which the locals consider the edge of the world, we hypothesize the existence of other, even larger, landmasses. The volume of the world's oceans, according to preliminary calculations, exceeds the entire surface area of our native Earth. This opens up colossal, almost frightening, prospects."

  A low, amazed murmur went through the hall. Even the stern-faced generals could not hide their surprise.

  "Interesting…" the President said thoughtfully. "Thank you. Sergei Anatolyevich, you're next. Progress at the Synthesis Academies and fundamental research into magic."

  Sergei Anatolyevich, the curator of scientific projects, stood up.

  "The Academies are operating on schedule, Mikhail Viktorovich. As for hybrid technologies, we have our first experimental prototype—an electromagnetic cannon that uses magic crystals as energy accumulators. The results are modest so far—low efficiency, monstrous instability. But it is a first step."

  He took a breath.

  "As for magic itself… the situation is complex, but promising. Our current generation has shown no innate magical abilities. However, infants born after the Transfer have been found to possess a so-called 'magic circuit' during routine medical examinations. Mana. This discovery gives us confidence that in one or two generations, Russia will have its own mages."

  "That is good news…" the President said encouragingly. "Anything else?"

  "Yes, Mikhail Viktorovich," Sergei Anatolyevich leaned forward slightly. "We require a separate location. Far from populated territories. A proving ground. Where we could conduct high-risk research and testing. Uncontrolled magical releases, spatial distortions… We are entering a field where we have no safety protocols."

  Silence fell in the hall. Everyone understood what was at stake. Their own place where the technologies that would determine the fate of this world would be forged.

  "Valentin Eduardovich mentioned new islands discovered by our satellites. Perhaps among them, a suitable, uninhabited one can be found," the President thoughtfully steepled his fingers, his gaze resting on Sergei Anatolyevich. "Such a place would allow us to work without risk to the civilian population and without the threat of information leaks. What specific tests are you planning to conduct there?"

  Sergei Anatolyevich lifted his chin, and his voice took on even more resolve and the enthusiasm of a scientist on the verge of great discoveries.

  "Research into controlled thermonuclear fusion and plasma confinement—this is our key to energy independence in this world. Additionally—the development of fundamentally new types of weaponry, based not on gunpowder, but on pure energy. And, of course, a new generation of individual protective gear. We're talking about personal force fields, even if only in theory for now."

  His eyes gleamed.

  "But the main thing is, we must study magic more deeply. Not just copy their spells, but understand the physics of this phenomenon. Runology, alchemy, artifact creation… If we can combine this with our nanotechnology and quantum computing, we will create a true synergy. We won't just be using magic. We will create a new science."

  The President leaned back in his chair thoughtfully.

  "That sounds not just ambitious. It sounds like an attempt to rewrite the laws of the universe. But such projects require colossal resources."

  "We will require full state funding and a completely isolated location to work. But if we lay this foundation now, in ten years it will bring our country not just new technologies, but absolute, unattainable superiority," Sergei Anatolyevich replied with unwavering confidence.

  The President gave a short, decisive nod.

  "Done. Prepare the project proposal, Sergei Anatolyevich. Present it at the next closed session. The matter is decided."

  Sergei Anatolyevich bowed his head in gratitude.

  When the discussion was finished, everyone stood. President Romanov surveyed the hall with his firm gaze.

  "Thank you all for your work. Parpaldia is broken. A new era is beginning. Return to your duties. We have a new Russia to build here. And this will be the work of more than one generation."