While battles raged in the West between the Holy Mirishial Empire and the Empire of Gra Valkas, tensions in the East were beginning to boil over in their own way.

  Continent of Rodenius. Principality of Qua-Toyne. Special Designation City of Beales.

  Main Directorate of Internal Affairs (MDIA) for the Beales Region. Basement Level. Interrogation Room No. 4.

  In the cramped interrogation room, lined with gray soundproofing panels, the air was heavy, stale, and permeated with the smell of cold sweat, cheap tobacco, and fear. The only source of light—a bright magic lamp in a metal cage under the ceiling—ruthlessly illuminated every speck of dust in the air and every wrinkle on the investigator's face.

  Captain Gareth, an experienced interrogator from the beast-folk kin, leaned heavily with his hands on the steel tabletop bolted to the floor. His new-pattern uniform—dark blue, with Qua-Toyne Police chevrons and an "MVD" patch—fit his broad shoulders perfectly, but right now he had unbuttoned the top button, freeing his neck, covered in stiff fur. His ears, sharper and more mobile than a human's, twitched slightly, catching the slightest changes in the room's background noise.

  "Answer the question, pup," his voice was a low, growling rumble that made diaphragms vibrate. "Your 'friends' in cell three are already singing like canaries. We know about the cache. We know about the leaflets. We only need the name of the handler."

  "I... I don't know anything! You're making a mistake!" the accused jerked up, shrugging his shoulders sharply, causing the handcuffs chained to the table to clink.

  The kid looked about eighteen or twenty. A half-breed. A pretty face characteristic of those with Elven blood in their veins, but with the coarseness of human features. His blue eyes darted around, and his hair—a strange, unnatural ash-silver shade, tousled and dirty—fell onto his forehead.

  "Don't know..." Gareth slowly walked around the table and stood behind the detainee.

  He inhaled deeply. For a beastman, interrogation was not just dialogue; it was an analysis of chemical reactions. He smelled the adrenaline and cortisol emanating from the kid's skin. He heard his heart beating wildly, skipping beats.

  "You're lying," the investigator stated, leaning towards the half-breed's pointed ear. "Your pulse is one hundred and forty beats. You're breathing fast, shallowly. You don't just smell like fear. You smell like guilt. And also..." Gareth sniffed. "A strange, sweet smell of incense. Not ours. Fanatics use stuff like that at closed gatherings. I know and I feel that you are connected with those scumbags from 'Clear Sky'!"

  BAM!

  The beastman's fist slammed onto the table next to the kid's head with a crash. Stationery and a glass of water jumped. The guy pressed himself into the chair, trying to become smaller.

  "Don't test my patience! We are not in old Qua-Toyne, where you could buy your way out with a couple of coins! Different laws work here now. Russian wartime laws! Answer the questions! Where did you get the symbolism of the Ancients?!"

  "I don't know anything!" the suspect broke into a scream, his eyes filling with angry tears. "I was just walking with my girlfriend! Your attack dogs jumped me, twisted my arms, and threw me into this cursed iron box! You have no right! Release me immediately! My father is a member of the Trade Council! He'll skin you all alive and send you to the mines! You'll regret this!"

  Gareth straightened up. His face became unreadable, and his yellow eyes narrowed. In this scream, he heard what he was looking for—not the fear of an innocent man, but the hysteria of a cornered fanatic hiding behind influence he no longer had. Denial of the obvious, a classic tactic they are taught.

  "'Skin', huh..." the captain repeated quietly, and a dangerous softness sounded in his voice. "So, the hard way it is. I gave you a chance. I wanted to handle everything clean, like in the protocol."

  He sighed heavily, took a pack of Russian cigarettes from his pocket, twirled it in his fingers, but didn't light up. Then he walked to the intercom on the wall and, pressing the button, uttered just one phrase that sounded like a sentence:

  "Duty officer. Call the consultant. Get Mr. Kupriyanov. The client... is ripe for an in-depth conversation."

  "N-no... who? I demand a lawyer!" the guy fidgeted, feeling the atmosphere in the room change. The name was unfamiliar to him, but the investigator's tone was scarier than shouting.

  "You chose this yourself, kid. Lawyers won't help here," Gareth threw over his shoulder, squeamishly brushing non-existent dust from his uniform trousers.

  The heavy steel bolt clanged, cutting off the interrogation room from the corridor. The police investigator walked out, leaving the half-breed alone in the pool of electric light, alone with the silence and the anticipation of the footsteps of the one whom local policemen quietly called "The Inquisitor."

  The case took a nasty, catastrophic turn just a week ago.

  It was supposed to be a day of joy. The Harvest Festival—a sacred holiday in honor of the Goddess of Earth, the first after the devastating war with Louria. The city, decorated with ribbons and flowers, tried to forget the horrors experienced. Music played in the squares, wine flowed, people and demi-humans thanked the earth for fertility, and their Russian allies for peaceful skies.

  But peace turned out to be fragile.

  What began as scattered pogroms and attacks on the warehouses of Russian companies over the past three months (which were written off as crime) instantly crystallized into a coordinated act of intimidation.

  A terrorist group calling itself "Dawn" (in Russian reports, they went under the code name "Sunrise") struck right at the height of the festivities. It was not a spontaneous massacre, but a planned military operation.

  The militants blocked the exits from the central square with magical barriers and opened a storm of crossfire on the crowd. More than two hundred and forty citizens—elves, humans, dwarves, women, and children—were killed with demonstrative, inhuman cruelty in the first ten minutes.

  Engagement: Sector "Center".

  The reaction was swift, but the enemy proved ready for it.

  When combined squads of the People's Militia (local police) arrived on the scene, they expected to see fanatics with daggers and arquebuses. Instead, they ran into a wall of automatic fire. Patrols were mown down in seconds.

  The reserve entered the battle—the 3rd Separate Motorized Rifle Company of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation, stationed on the outskirts of the city. A column of six BTR-82As and three "Tigr" armored vehicles rushed to the square, expecting to suppress resistance with a mere show of force and heavy caliber.

  However, urban combat dragged on for a monstrous seven hours, unthinkable for a confrontation between a regular army and insurgents.

  The company commander's report, which now lay on the desks of all special services, was riddled with frightening details. The militants used complex tactics: they worked in pairs, competently used urban buildings and underground communications (sewers) for maneuvering. They covered themselves with hostages, preventing the Russians from using 30mm cannons at full power. They disabled vehicles with incendiary mixtures based on magical phosphorus.

  And the terrifying part—they weren't afraid. The wounded continued to shoot until their bodies were turned into sieves.

  Ultimately, only the use of assault groups with heavy infantry weapons (RPO "Shmel" flamethrowers, large-caliber sniper rifles) and the help of Qua-Toyne mages allowed them to turn the tide.

  The outcome was bloody: one hundred and six militants liquidated, sixty taken prisoner (most in critical condition). Allied and civilian casualties numbered in the hundreds.

  The Investigation.

  Immediately after the smoke cleared and the blood was washed off the pavements, an operational-investigative group of the Central Directorate (an analog of the FSB, created with the help of advisors) arrived in Beales. Specialists from the GRU and the 2nd Service of the FSB of the Russian Federation joined them.

  The questions hanging in the air were heavier than lead:

  1. Weaponry: Where did the "aborigines" get modern rifled automatic weapons? Examination of shell casings and captured guns showed: these were not artisanal crafts. They were either stolen or perfectly copied models of Russian AKs and SVDs.

  2. Training: How were yesterday's peasants or townsfolk able to hold a city block for seven hours against the elite of motorized rifle troops equipped with thermal imagers and armor? Who taught them sectors of fire, camouflage, mine-explosive warfare? Their level of training corresponded to SSO (Special Operations Forces) saboteurs.

  3. Counterintelligence Failure: How did the mobilization of nearly two hundred fighters, the accumulation of an arsenal, and planning happen right under the noses of the "Lotus Council" and Russian advisors? This smelled of betrayal at the very top.

  What historians would later call the "Red Week of Beales" began in the city. Extremely agitated "scurrying" of special services bordering on panic. Curfew was imposed. Any attempt to resist a patrol was punishable by fire to kill. Total purges of neighborhoods, document checks, and mass arrests on the slightest suspicion began. Special forces stormed caches found based on tips from prisoners. Investigators worked twenty hours a day. The Lotus Council, fearing the loss of Moscow's trust and power, enacted wartime laws providing for expedited judicial proceedings and the death penalty for terrorism. Beales fell silent in horror, waiting for answers that might turn out to be scarier than the terrorist attack itself.

  Beales City Main Directorate of Internal Affairs. Temporary Detention Ward.

  Interrogation Room No. 14.

  The silence in the cell was not empty, but ringing, pressing on the ears like a thickness of water. Fal Bariat, sitting on a cold metal stool bolted to the concrete floor, felt this silence slowly grinding his sanity into dust.

  Fal was a son of his era and his class. The second heir to the wealthiest Bariat trading house, whose father, the cunning and resourceful Toren tor Bariat, was the first to understand which way the wind of change was blowing. The old man had moved the business from the patriarchal Qua-Toyne here, to Beales, growing on Russian money and technologies. He traded not just in fabric, but in "elite textiles for business people"—sewing suits for Russian managers and the local nobility who adopted their fashion. Contracts with Moscow firms flowed like a river; gold turned into rubles and back, multiplying capital.

  But Fal hated this gold.

  He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. All his father's creation should have belonged to him by birthright! The old man was in bad shape, healers threw up their hands, Life magic only delayed the inevitable. Fal was already trying on the role of the Head of the House... And then, out of the blue, these Rossiyans crashed down. Cursed otherworlders.

  His hatred for these "green spotted bastards" was not ideological, but personal, bilious. They were too loud, too confident. They did not bow to him, a representative of the nobility. They looked through him as if at an empty space. And his father... His father groveled before them. "Partners," he would say with a gasp. Fal saw this as a betrayal of blood.

  Not knowing where to put his malice and bruised ego, Fal found solace in the poison brought by the invaders themselves.

  Vodka. Clear as a tear, and evil as fire.

  The first glass burned his throat, the second fogged his mind, and the third made him feel like the king of the world, capable of overthrowing any tyrant. The Rossiyans knew how to do two things: fight and get people drunk.

  Alcoholism hit him fast and hard. He was losing his human appearance. At business meetings, where his father took him out of old habit, Fal behaved defiantly, was rude to "partners," and reeked of fumes.

  Toren's verdict was ruthless: "You have disappointed me, son. You are weak. The business will pass to Tim." The younger brother. Obedient, Russian-boot-licking Tim.

  This was the last straw. Excommunicated from affairs, but not from his father's treasury (the old man was still sentimental), Fal went all out in the dirtiest taverns of the lower city. It was there, in the smoke of smoking mixtures and vapors of cheap swill, that That Man sat down next to him. He did not give his name, but spoke in such a way that words fell into Fal's soul like seeds into black earth. He spoke of honor, of the "dominance of strangers," of the fact that the true masters of this land were the elves and humans of Qua-Toyne, not aliens with their noisy machines.

  "Shouldn't have agreed... Shouldn't have listened to his sweet speeches..." Fal mentally howled, biting his lip until it bled. He wanted to clasp his head in his hands and rock from side to side, but the handcuffs chained to the steel bracket of the table did not allow it. "What an idiot I am! Got involved with psychopaths!"

  Back then, everything seemed like a game. A secret society. An elite club of "true patriots." The backbone was made up of the same "golden youth"—offended heirs whose fathers lost influence under the new order. They had money, lots of money. A "Struggle Fund" was organized. At first, they spent it on elite courtesans, drugs from southern lands, and drunken debauches, which they proudly called "cell meetings."

  But then the Curator—that very man from the tavern—demanded action. "Brotherhood is sealed with blood," he said. And it began. First, smashed windows of Russian shops. Then a Russian engineer beaten in an alley. Then... Then arson. Money flowed like a river, and Fal, intoxicated by his secret power and vodka, did not notice how he turned from a rich idler into a financier of terrorists. When real pogroms began and the first corpses appeared, he smelled it. The smell of blood and, worse, the smell of goblin shit. The business stank. The Curator stopped smiling; a cold fanatical glint appeared in his eyes. Fal wanted to get out, to run away, but fear of "his own" proved stronger than fear of the police. Stupidity, pride, and resentment towards his father did not let him "back out."

  And now he is here.

  Four and a half hours had already passed. Time in this sterile, empty room stretched like rubber. His stomach cramped—the hangover was coming into its own, demanding a new dose that wasn't there. He exhausted himself with self-flagellation and nervous anticipation, scrolling through excuses in his head that sounded increasingly pathetic.

  The heavy steel bolt of the door clicked loudly, like a gunshot, making Fal shudder with his whole body and press himself into the chair.

  The door opened without a creak, heavily and dully. A man stepped into the room whose appearance was so ordinary that the eye simply slid past, finding nothing to latch onto. Average height, indeterminately brown hair, a face as if erased by an eraser—no scars, no moles, no memorable features. Gray, watery eyes looked at the world with absolute, dead calm. Such a person could stand with you in the same line for bread, and an hour later, just as mundanely, without malice or excitement, slice someone's carotid artery in an alley, simply following instructions.

  Approaching the iron table bolted to the floor, he carefully, tenderly placed a worn leather doctor's bag on it. The locks clicked unnaturally loudly in the silence. Scanning Fal with a studying, clinical gaze—the way a vivisectionist looks at a lab rat, assessing its vitality—he spoke in a quiet voice devoid of intonation:

  "My name is Kupriyanov Eduard Kirillovich. Special investigator for particularly important cases, seconded from Moscow. I am sincerely not pleased to meet you."

  "..." Fal tried to say something, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. A cold, unpleasant sucking sensation appeared in his stomach, and the intoxication finally evaporated, leaving behind only nauseating clarity and sticky horror.

  "Meet my assistants. Daniil, Pavel," Eduard nodded casually towards two sturdy guys in civilian clothes, but with military bearing, who entered after him and silently stood by the door, arms crossed. Their faces were hidden by medical masks.

  Kupriyanov sat opposite Fal, unbuttoned his jacket, and slowly stretched his neck with a crunch.

  "Where to begin?" He thoughtfully rubbed his clean-shaven chin, looking through the arrested man. "However, let's skip the prelude with 'I demand a lawyer' and 'you have no right.' We live in wartime, young man. Your rights remained outside the door. So, tell us, citizen accused?"

  "About what... do you mean?" Fal's voice cracked; he nervously swallowed viscous, bitter saliva. His heart beat against his ribs like a trapped bird.

  "The standard list," Eduard began bending his fingers, and metallic notes cut through his voice. "Who is the customer and coordinator of the terrorist attack on Central Square? The full list of members of the 'Clear Sky' organization. Financing scheme. And, most importantly—the names of your curators from among the 'winged' ones. Or 'horned' ones. Whomever you served there."

  Fal was silent, paralyzed by fear.

  Eduard sighed, and there was so much fatigue in that sigh that it became even scarier.

  "Listen, Bariat. We have a very tight schedule. Many calls, few specialists. We gathered in a hurry. I forgot my work apron, and, frankly, I really don't want to stain this suit with your blood or something worse. So I ask you nicely: answer to the point. Save time for us and health—for yourself." He smiled. Friendly. Only that smile didn't touch his eyes, which remained two pieces of ice.

  From this "kind" smile, promising things worse than death, Fal shivered. Cold sweat ran down his back. He wanted to scream, call his father, but he understood—no one would come.

  "Well, why are you silent? Choosing the 'hard way'?" Eduard asked with feigned regret, breaking the prolonged pause. He reached out to the side without looking. "Daniil?"

  One of the assistants put an instrument in his palm. It was not a knife. It was an old, Soviet all-metal scalpel-lancet. A small, matte blade the size of just two phalanxes of a pinky finger.

  "Thank you, colleague, I had forgotten it was in my side pocket."

  Kupriyanov twirled the scalpel in his fingers, catching the glint of the lamp.

  "Well? Since your vocal cords are temporarily paralyzed by the honor of a nobleman... or stupidity... we'll have to stimulate the pain centers. Let's start with the peripheral nervous system. Achilles tendons. Painful, but consciousness is not lost. Colleagues—immobilize the patient."

  The assistants stepped forward. Strong hands pressed Fal's shoulders and legs to the chair. Plastic ties tightened around his ankles with a crackle.

  Eduard sighed sadly, like a teacher before punishing a negligent student, stood up, walked around the table, and squatted next to Fal's leg. He removed the expensive leather shoe from the arrestee, then the sock.

  "Don't twitch. My hand might slip, and I'll damage an artery," he warned mundanely.

  The stupor vanished the very moment the cold steel of the scalpel touched the tender skin on the arch of the foot. He didn't even press. Just touched. But this phantom anticipation of pain was enough. The nerves of the pampered aristocrat, who had never even received the belt from his father, gave way.

  "A-A-A! DON'T! PLEASE!" Fal squealed in fright, thrashing in his bonds like an epileptic. Tears burst from his eyes. "I'LL TELL EVERYTHING! I swear! Just don't cut! Please! I'll say everything I know!"

  "If only it were always like this," Eduard slowly rose, putting the scalpel in his pocket. He pulled down the edge of the medical mask he had put on a second earlier, and smiled with satisfaction—this time for real, a predatory grin of thirty-two teeth. In this smile, there was not a drop of sympathy, only the triumph of a professional who had cracked the defense.

  "Colleagues, you may release the suspect. And you, scum," his voice changed instantly, losing all feigned intelligence, and becoming cold and heavy as a tombstone, "tell everything. In every detail. If you lie even in one word—we return to the leg. The recorder is running."

  And Fal began to speak. Words poured out of him in a stream, mixed with sobs and tremors, as if he were vomiting up his own fear.

  It was a confession of a fall. He said that at first, it really was just a "Club of Interests"—a gathering of envious, arrogant rich kids burning through their parents' fortunes in opium dens and closed brothels. They hated the Russians not for their politics, but because they had destroyed their cozy little world of feudal superiority. Before, a surname opened any doors; now, skills, diplomas, and contracts were valued.

  "We were just chatting... drinking and complaining," Fal muttered, smearing snot over his expensive but dirty camisole. "But then He appeared. That shady guy from the 'Lame Wyvern'. He proposed... a game."

  The idea was diabolically simple and effective: use the social bottom as a battering ram.

  "Why dirty your hands yourselves?" he said. "Give money to those who already hate the whole world. Let beggars ruin the lives of rich aliens."

  And volunteers were found instantly. The urban dregs of Beales—vagrants, peasants who had lost their land, junkies hooked on cheap magic stimulants. People ready to kill for a silver coin and blaming anyone—elves, the government, Russians—for their troubles, except themselves.

  Thus the pogroms began. For the "golden youth," this became a sort of reality show. They watched from the windows of their carriages as the property of the "occupiers" burned, and caught a perverted euphoria of impunity from it.

  "Personally, with the Chief... with the leader of this circle, I was not acquainted. He kept to the shadows," Fal swallowed. "I saw him a couple of times during our... parties. He didn't drink, didn't touch women. Just sat in the corner and watched. His name is strange. Not Elven and not human from our parts. Sharp, like the bark of a dog. His name was... Ronald."

  Daniil and Pavel, standing by the door, exchanged barely perceptible glances. Eduard, without changing his expression, leaned forward slightly. The name wasn't local. More likely Gra-Valkan or... European.

  "Go on," he ordered quietly. "Details. What he looked like, how he spoke, what he held in his hands."

  "The devil is in the details, right?" Fal giggled nervously. "There were two things... First: he was constantly writing something. Sat with his nose buried in a small black notebook with a leather binding. Never parted with it."

  "And the second?"

  "The pen." Fal looked at the investigator's cheap plastic ballpoint pen lying on the table. "He wrote with one just like that. A Russian ballpoint pen. But... you understand..."

  Fal tried to portray the gesture.

  "When we, locals, take your pens, we hold them like a quill—with a tilt, carefully, afraid to press. But he... He gripped it so naturally, with such motor skills... He wrote quickly, jerkily, not looking at the paper. It seemed he had been writing with this thing since birth. It took me weeks to get used to it, and even then I hold it like a chicken with its claw, but he... He was like one of you."

  A cold fire flared in Kupriyanov's eyes. This was "golden" evidence. Motor skills are something almost impossible to fake. "Ronald" was either an Earthling or a Gra-Valkas agent deeply integrated into Earth culture.

  "Then the game ended," Fal's voice dropped to a whisper. "The nightmare began. Ronald brought in 'specialists'. Total recruitment of real psychos began. Not drunks, but killers. Deserters from the defeated army of Louria, fugitive mercenaries from Parpaldia, criminals. All the riffraff that knows how to hold a sword and has a grudge against Russia. They were armed, they were trained somewhere outside the city. Fal and the other 'sponsors' were no longer given a say—they just shook money out of them. Terrible rumors circulated... some slaughter was being prepared. I... I got scared."

  Fal began to shake.

  "I spent two weeks in a narcotic stupor, trying to forget this horror. And when I woke up and learned about the massacre on the square... I realized I was next. I rushed to my mistress, wanted to flee to Quila, get lost in the desert... But your people... they were already waiting."

  Eduard nodded sedately. The picture was coming together. Hybrid warfare. By foreign hands, for foreign money, but under professional guidance.

  He slowly, demonstratively pulled a clean sheet of snow-white paper from a folder and placed that same simple ballpoint pen next to it.

  "Listen to me carefully, Citizen Bariat. Now you will take this instrument and write a detailed verbal portrait of this Ronald. Everything. Height, eye color, skin tone, accent, scars, tattoos. In which hand he held a glass, and in which—a knife. Draw him, if you can. And then compile a list of all your rich-kid 'partners'. Who, where they live, where they hide money."

  "You... you won't kill me after this, will you?" Fal rustled, looking at the investigator with the eyes of a beaten dog. "I told everything..."

  "Kill? Why?" Kupriyanov looked at him from under his brows with sincere bewilderment. "By your account, you are merely a 'useful idiot'. A pawn. Your hands are in blood, but indirectly. However... For organizing a criminal community, financing terrorism, and treason, according to the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation under martial law, you face from twenty years to life. And if we hand you over to the local authorities... the laws of Qua-Toyne are simple: forty years of hard labor in the uranium mines. You'll croak there in a month."

  He leaned close to the guy's face.

  "But if you want to get out of this story alive and get off with a suspended sentence and witness protection—you must give me not just testimony. You must give me the 'head' of this hydra. Write as if your life depends on every letter. Because it does."

  With shaking hands, sobbing convulsively, Fal grabbed the pen. It slid in his sweaty fingers. He pulled the sheet closer and, bowing low, began to clumsily but hurriedly write down everything his memory snatched from the narcotic fog. Names, safe houses, features of the man with the non-local name Ronald.

  Principality of Qua-Toyne. Beales City.

  Main Directorate of Internal Affairs. Wing of Seconded Specialists.

  Time: 14:15 local time.

  The office, hastily refitted into a situation center, smelled of strong, burnt coffee, ozone from running electronics, and thick tobacco smoke. The windows were tightly shuttered with blackout blinds, and the only sources of light were the monitors of ruggedized laptops and the green indicators of the special communications gear.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Eduard Kupriyanov, casting aside the mask of the "bad cop" from his shoulders, sank wearily into his armchair. He rubbed his face with his palms, as if trying to wipe away the sticky sensation from the interrogation he had just conducted. Sadism, even feigned, was exhausting. His assistants, Daniil and Pavel, were already busily packing Fal's written testimony and that very "damn pen" used by the mysterious Ronald into special evidence containers.

  Kupriyanov took out a pack of Russky Stil cigarettes, clicked his lighter, and took a deep drag. Blue-gray smoke drifted slowly toward the ceiling, where an air purifier hummed quietly.

  "Nice catch, Eduard Kirillovich," Daniil noted quietly, sealing the evidence bag. "That bit about the motor skills of writing... you really nailed him on that. If this Ronald actually writes with our ballpoint pen like a native, it means he's either a 'transferee' like Kaios, or a career GVE intelligence officer who's undergone deep adaptation."

  "Or something even worse," Kupriyanov replied gloomily. "Alright. Let's not read tea leaves. Let the analysts at Lubyanka rack their brains over it. Our job is to deliver the 'cargo'."

  He reached for the massive "Atlas" secure satellite communications unit standing on a separate table. He lifted the heavy handset and punched the access code into the crypto-panel.

  For a couple of seconds, only digital static hissed in the speaker—the signal was traveling through a relay to orbit, punching through the atmosphere's magical interference to reach Moscow.

  Click. The line was established.

  " 'Center' online, go ahead," the clear female voice of the FSB situation center's duty operator rang out in the receiver, distorted by the scrambler.

  "This is 10-24," Kupriyanov said, exhaling a stream of smoke. His voice became dry and official. "Reporting. Primary interrogation of object 'Rich Kid' is complete. Critical intelligence obtained. Category 'Red'. Presence of a residency with signs of otherworld origin confirmed. We have a description of the handler."

  A second of silence hung on the other end. The operator was logging the information.

  "Copy that, 10-24. Status of the data?"

  "Physical evidence and data carrier require immediate transport to the OPIR-9 laboratory," Eduard continued, looking at the protocol lying before him. "Requesting extraction. I have a message for the Mainland. Activating Protocol Six-Point-Two."

  Protocol 6.2 was a code no one liked to use. It meant "Emergency evacuation of a high-value witness and materials via air transport under high-security mode with fighter jet cover." It meant that Fal Bariat was now the most guarded man on the continent, and the intelligence services of two nations were responsible for his life with their heads.

  "Request confirmed, 10-24," the operator's voice became even more business-like. "Special flight An-148 allocated from the FSB aviation wing, callsign 'Flight-Alpha'. The SOF escort group is already airborne. Wait at the military sector of Beales airfield."

  "Estimated time?"

  "Flight arrives in forty-four minutes," the female voice replied. "Secure the perimeter. Cargo readiness for loading—immediate."

  Kupriyanov checked his watch, synchronizing the time.

  "Copy. Cargo is ready. Waiting for the escort 'choppers'. Out."

  He slowly lowered the handset onto the cradle.

  "Out..."

  Main Directorate of Internal Affairs. Isolated Sector for Seconded Specialists.

  Three days later. Time: 02:35 AM.

  Outside the windows, shut tight with heavy blinds, a cold night wind howled, chasing trash and scraps of "Clear Sky" leaflets along the empty streets of Beales. The city, shackled by curfew and military police patrols, slept a restless sleep. But in the office on the third floor of the MDIA, converted into an operational headquarters, life was buzzing. Although "buzzing" isn't exactly the right word. It was smoldering, like a safety fuse burning down to the detonator.

  The air in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife—a dense, blue-gray layer of tobacco smoke hung below the ceiling like an immovable slab, despite the humming exhaust fan. Tables were piled high with empty mugs caked with coffee grounds, MRE boxes, and heaps of printouts from satellite imagery and magical intercept transcripts.

  Eduard Kupriyanov hadn't slept for forty hours. His eyes stung as if full of sand, a dull ache pulsed in his temples, but his mind remained crystal clear, sustained by adrenaline and pharmaceuticals.

  He sat before the monitor of a tactical terminal, streaming a feed from a "bird"—a low-noise electric drone hovering three hundred meters above a port warehouse in the industrial zone.

  On the black-and-white, inverted screen of the thermal imager, five heat signatures were clearly visible moving inside the hangar, the walls of which glowed from the heat accumulated during the day.

  "'Center,' this is 'Squall.' Situation report," the rustling whisper of the commander of the joint Special Operations Forces group, currently lying in the "green zone" along the facility's perimeter, crackled through the secure comms speaker.

  Kupriyanov pressed the handset tighter to his ear.

  "Go ahead, 'Squall.'"

  "Visual contact with target 'Scribe' confirmed," the commander's voice was devoid of emotion. "Description is a one-hundred-percent match. Height, build, mannerisms. Cargo transfer just completed. We see the containers; the markings match what our informant Bariat provided. Magical background is intensifying. Sensors indicate activation of Class 2 protection. They are preparing to exfiltrate via the underground collector."

  "Any civilians in the kill zone?" Kupriyanov asked curtly, watching as one of the white dots on the screen handed another an oblong object—an assault rifle, by the looks of it.

  "Negative. Sector clear. Area containment complete. Sniper teams in position. Assault element at the airlock. We are ready to go dynamic."

  Eduard felt his heart, which had been beating steadily until now, skip a beat. This was it. The moment of truth. "Ronald"—or whoever was hiding behind that name—was in the trap. No more cat-and-mouse games. No more political song and dance.

  "What is the probability of taking him alive?"

  "Fifty-fifty, 'Center.' Subject is initiated, security detail consists of modified 'One-Wings.' In a capture attempt, use of suicide techniques or mass destruction magic is possible. Risk of personnel loss is high."

  "Copy," Kupriyanov closed his eyes for a second. He weighed the pros and cons.

  A witness was needed. But the risk of letting the group escape or ending up with a pile of his boys' corpses in the center of an allied city was unacceptable. The FSB does not take risks in vain. If you can't take them, you must destroy them. A dead enemy can also speak—through his belongings, documents, and the very fact of his death.

  "Your objective is to neutralize the sabotage group. Priority is the safety of the assault team. Hit them hard," he said firmly, feeling the cold metal of the phone casing. "If there is the slightest threat of combat magic usage or a breakout attempt—shoot to kill. I repeat: take them alive if possible, dead if necessary."

  "Copy that, 'Center.' Requesting authorization to assault. Team is at readiness zero. Awaiting command."

  Eduard looked at the screen. One of the figures on the thermal imager raised a hand, as if sensing something was wrong. There was no time left.

  "Authorization granted," he barked shortly and hollowly, giving the go-ahead, after which he slammed the heavy ebonite receiver onto the cradle with a clang.

  His hand automatically reached for the pack of cigarettes on the table. The lighter clicked, illuminating his tired face with a yellow flash, and Kupriyanov, taking a deep, greedy drag, blew a stream of blue-gray smoke toward the ceiling, knowing that at this very second, on the other side of the city, all hell was breaking loose.

  Port Industrial Zone. Warehouse Terminal No. 4.

  Time: 02:35 AM.

  Kupriyanov's voice, distorted by encryption, rang out over the headset feed: "…Authorization granted."

  The commander of the joint Special Operations Forces (SSO) assault team, callsign "Squall," frozen like a shadow against the brick wall of the warehouse, pressed the push-to-talk button on his chest rig.

  "Team 'Chemist,' go. Protocol 'Sleepy Kingdom.' Inject gas through ventilation shafts and maintenance gaps."

  On the hangar roof and at the blocked rear exits, inconspicuous figures in black coveralls stirred into motion, PMK-4 assault gas masks already pulled over their faces. The chemical sappers silently installed compact canisters resembling thermoses, bearing chemical hazard markings, onto the ventilation ducts. A barely audible hiss of pneumatics rang out.

  "'Disco' is live," a support team fighter whispered over the air, a vicious smirk audible in his voice.

  The substance being injected under pressure into the building was a legend and a nightmare in narrow circles. "Neuroflocotonitosinite." Officially—a special riot control agent. Unofficially—a psychochemical weapon developed by the gloomy geniuses of the Petropavlovsk branch of GosNIIOKhT back in 1969.

  Inside the warehouse, invisible in the darkness, a heavy cloud with a beautiful azure tint began to spread. It was chemistry that struck the central nervous system. Those who inhaled this filth stood no chance of heroism.

  The timing was ruthless.

  0:30 seconds—first inhalations.

  2:00 minutes—victims become incapacitated. Uncontrolled, bone-breaking convulsions and muscle spasms resembling a mad dance begin (hence the cynical nickname "Disco," which stuck to the gas back in the 80s after the cleanups of the Tora Bora caves in Afghanistan).

  4:00 minutes—total numbness of limbs, loss of spatial orientation. The enemy understands everything, but their body no longer belongs to them.

  6:00 minutes—nausea, dizziness, collapse of the vestibular system.

  7:00 minutes—profuse, unceasing vomiting leading to dehydration and shock. The ideal state for interrogation—no will, only the animalistic desire to end the torment.

  Squall waited for a pause, listening to the wind rustling the dry grass. The silence inside the warehouse was deceptive. The gas was already doing its work, killing the will to resist before the first shot was fired.

  "Attention, fighters," the commander said, adjusting the mask on his face as he raised a hand with a tactical watch glowing with dim phosphorescent light in the darkness. The capture team grouped around him: "shield-men" with heavy Vant shields, and stormtroopers with shortened assault rifles and suppressed AS Val rifles.

  He spoke quietly, but every word in the fighters' headsets sounded like a hammer blow.

  "We breach at zero-two thirty-seven. Simultaneously, from three points. Once again, keep it brief: according to reports from HQ and FSB analysts, the enemy is extremely dangerous. These aren't goblins or peasants with pitchforks. Presumably, 'old partners' from the refinery, or their students. Did you read the sitreps? These bastards held a city block for seven hours and 'snapped at' an entire motorized rifle company, burning through armor. Their training is on the level of our saboteurs, plus—some unknown magical filth."

  Squall scanned the mask-hidden faces of his men.

  "So, stay sharp. No heroics. Turn off your pity. You see a weapon, you see a magical glow, you see movement after the command 'Get down'—fire to kill without warning. We need prisoners to talk, but your lives are more important to me."

  He looked at the watch face. The second hand inexorably ticked away the moments until the assault.

  "We work fast, hard, and with surgical precision. In—suppress—bag 'em—out. Synchronize watches: zero-two, thirty-four..."

  Target: "Warehouse". Assault Phase.

  Time: 22:37.

  "Let's work," the commander of "Squall" ordered hollowly through the diaphragm of his comms device. With a sharp motion, he pulled the mask of his panoramic PMK-4 assault gas mask over his face, sealing his air supply. The world narrowed down to the visor's field of view and the data on his tactical monocle display.

  Through the murky veil of azure fog seeping from the building's cracks, three five-man assault teams, clad in heavy Class 6A armor, slipped toward the entrances. Their movements were fluid and synchronized, like a single mechanism. Compact, deadly silent AMB-18S 9×39mm assault rifles looked black in their hands. These weapons didn't bark; they only clicked dryly, spitting out heavy armor-piercing bullets capable of punching through any body armor in this world.

  The point man of the first five-man team approached the side iron door. He didn't kick it in. He carefully, almost tenderly, pressed the handle, checking—it was unlocked. The greased hinges didn't make a sound. The operator pushed the door open and instantly "rolled" to the side, clearing the sector of fire for the shield-bearer with the Vant shield following him.

  The darkness of the corridor was sliced by the beams of weapon-mounted lights set to tactical strobe mode.

  Flash—darkness—flash—darkness.

  The ragged, pulsing light turned the warehouse interior into a surreal horror movie, disorienting anyone who might be there, breaking their perception of distance and movement. In this disco of death, shadows danced on the walls, and the silhouettes of the Spetsnaz seemed like blurred ghosts.

  "Corridor clear," the point man reported, sweeping his barrel from side to side. "Chemical recon confirms: gas concentration is combat-effective. Visibility—three meters."

  "Copy," the commander's voice in the earpiece was calm, like a sniper's pulse. "Scheme 'Troika'. Groups One, Two, Three—up the main stairs; yours are the second and third floors plus the attic. Groups Four, Five, Six—clear the perimeter, ground floor, and basement. Pick up the pace while they're still 'dancing'."

  "Roger."

  Heavy boots stepped dully on concrete covered in a layer of dust and some kind of slime. The fighters fanned out, "slicing the pie" at corners and checking every room.

  In the very first room—a former control room—they found them.

  Three militants in local leather armor. They weren't shooting. They were... twitching.

  The effect of the neurotoxin was terrifying. Men stood or lay in unnatural, contorted poses, their limbs seized by monstrous, rhythmic convulsions. Their eyes rolled back; foam mixed with vomit spilled from their mouths. They resembled broken marionettes being jerked by the strings of a mad puppeteer.

  "Attention, observing 'dancers,' stage one," came the calm report from the leader of the second group. "No active resistance. Weapons on the floor."

  "Bag 'em," the commander threw out coldly, not lowering his weapon. "Plastic zip-ties, hands behind backs, on their knees. Face in the floor so they don't choke on vomit. Check tattoos. I need sect markers."

  "Copy. Working."

  Meter by meter, the cleanup teams gnawed into the gut of the building. The azure fog concealed the scale of what was happening. Five minutes later, fifteen bound militants lay in a row in the makeshift "holding area" near the entrance. On their wrists, through the dirt, those same branded runes reported from Tomsk were visible. The seventh support group, working on evacuation, was already loading the first bodies into a black tinted bus with no license plates pulled up to the gates—former civilian transport requisitioned for state security needs.

  Everything was going too smoothly. Too quietly. Just the quiet clink of shell casings falling to the floor if they had to finish off the "stubborn ones," and the wheezing of the poisoned.

  "Group-1, status?" requested the assault commander, climbing the stairs behind the shield. He flashed the strobe into openings, picking out pieces of the interior: marked crates, some kind of altar with a skull, more twitching bodies.

  "Quiet so far, clearing the offices. No resistance. Advancing to the stairs to the third floor."

  "Copy. Carefu..."

  Suddenly, like a whip crack, deafening, furious gunfire rained down from above, from the third floor.

  It wasn't the crackle of a Kalashnikov. It was the heavy, bass rumble of large caliber, mixed with the hiss of magical discharges.

  RAT-TATA-TAT! VWOOSH!

  In response, reflexively, the silent Russian assault rifles immediately chattered. The barely audible tsk-tsk-tsk of subsonic bullets slamming into obstacles.

  The shield-bearer leading Group-2 recoiled—something heavy hit his heavy Vant shield, causing the ceramic to crack.

  "Contact!" screamed a fighter from the second group on the general channel, his voice breaking into a rasp. "Third floor, gallery! Three of them! The chem didn't take! They're in masks!"

  "I can't see, dammit! Smoke! Mark the target!" yelled the number two, spraying the darkness with a long burst. 9mm bullets stitched right through the wooden partitions, but the fire didn't die down.

  A silhouette flickered in the strobe light—fast, too fast for a human. A violet flash of a magical shield absorbed the burst.

  "He's going right! Bugged out into that room, 'empty' (no magic shield)! Cover! Shield forward!"

  "Holding! Suppressing!"

  "Moving! Moving! Frag out!"

  A multitude of voices on the air merged into a single din of professional combat work, where profanity was not cursing, but the language of target designation. Bullets crumbled the concrete of the stairwell, plaster rained down, and blue gas swirled from the explosions of RGN grenades.

  "What the fuck is going on up there?! Report!" asked the squad commander in an icy tone cutting through the noise, already understanding the answer.

  "Firefight with active hostiles on level three!" exhaled the team leader, shouting over an explosion. "One suppressed, two holding the corridor! They're snapping back hard, bitches! We have a 'Three-Hundred' (man down)!"

  "Copy. Heavies to the stairs! Suppress with fire! Smoke 'em!"

  The firing upstairs didn't stop, turning into a prolonged duel.

  Target: "Warehouse". Third Floor (Administrative Level).

  Time: 23:00.

  The corridor was drowning in blue-gray gunpowder smoke mixed with the remnants of the "Disco" azure gas. Tactical lights in strobe mode chopped the darkness into pieces, snatching shell casings, chunks of plaster, and the silhouettes of fighters pressed against the walls out of the gloom.

  "Red!" [Empty mag!] the machine gunner of the second group rasped, letting his partner pass and dropping to one knee to reload. His hands worked on autopilot; fingers habitually tore at the pouch flap.

  At that moment, something dark rolled out of the darkness of the far doorway across the floor, clinking against the concrete. It hit the boot of the stormtrooper with the callsign "Kord."

  A green, ribbed "lemon." The pin was pulled.

  "Kord, grenade! Left of your foot, fuck!" his partner's heart-rending scream drowned out the noise of the battle.

  There were no thoughts. There was only reflex, hammered in by years of training. "Kord" didn't think about heroism or death. He simply kicked the heavy ribbed ball with the bridge of his foot, putting all the horror of the situation into the strike. The grenade, clanging against the concrete, flew back around the corner, into the darkness of the doorway it had come from.

  KA-BOOM!

  A dull blow shook the floor slabs. Dust and someone's severed hand flew out of the doorway. The fighters were showered with plaster.

  Ears were ringing.

  "Bitch... Fuck... Everyone intact?! Report!"

  "Yes! Intact! No shrapnel!"

  "In the far passage, around the turn! It's a nest! Heavy contact, can't lift our heads!"

  From the other side of the corridor, through the ringing in their ears, came a furious, shrieking cry in an unknown, guttural dialect. The intonation was understandable without a translator—it was a mixture of curses and fanatical hatred.

  "Suck my dick, you freak! There's a hole for ya! You're fucking dead meat now, dammit!" shouted the Spetsnaz soldier viciously in response, leaning out from behind the jamb for a second and firing a long, sweeping burst blindly, just to shut that side up.

  The corridor turned into a fire pocket again. Heavy 7.62 bullets from the "Kalashnikovs" the militants were armed with crumbled the brick walls, ricocheted off the floor and ceiling, striking sparks. The Spetsnaz responded with stingy, precise "double taps" of armor-piercing 9mm rounds, stitching right through the flimsy doors.

  "They're dialed in! Won't let us move! We need to crush them, dammit!" shouted "Kord," feeling a brick shard slice his cheek.

  "Breaching with a 'Fenka'!" [F-1 Grenade] the team leader decided, ripping a grenade from his chest rig. In a confined space, it was risky, but there was no other choice. "Frag out! Cover, heads down!"

  The pin ring dinged against the floor. The grenade flew in a low arc, hit the wall deep in the corridor, and rolled around the turn.

  BOOM!

  The explosion of a defensive grenade in a confined space is hell. The blast wave compressed the air. The scream of pain from the other side cut off.

  "Go!"

  Some of the fighters, not waiting for the dust to settle, leaned out and opened suppressive fire over the heads of the assault pair. The shield-bearer with the Vant surged forward, clearing the path with his mass.

  But the battle wasn't just raging here. From below, from the first floor, came continuous cannonade. The whole building vibrated. Dull bursts of "Zarya" flashbangs, the dry crackle of AMBs, shouted commands, moans of the wounded—everything merged into a single symphony of the assault.

  "Taking the corner... Sector right!"

  The Spetsnaz operator with the callsign "Fox" brought up the rear. He turned to check the "blind zone"—an inconspicuous niche piled with trash.

  Suddenly, the pile of rags came alive.

  A militant lunged at him. He was huge, his face covered by a gruesome homemade gas mask with tinted lenses hiding mad eyes. In his hand, he clenched not a rifle, but a long, ritual dagger with a hooked blade dripping with green poison.

  Distance—zero. Too late to fire the rifle.

  "Fox" reacted on hand-to-hand combat instincts. He took the blow hard with the forearm of the hand holding the handguard, blocking the blade with the body of the AMB rifle. Steel clinked against composite.

  The militant growled—an inhuman sound came from under the mask—and tried to press with his mass. He reeked of chemicals—that very "Blood of the Ancestors."

  The Spetsnaz soldier knocked the enemy back with a sharp frontal kick to the knee, creating distance.

  The rifle hung on its sling, getting in the way.

  "Fox" tossed the main weapon aside and in a fraction of a second ripped a PY "Grach" pistol from his thigh holster.

  The safety had been disengaged at the entry.

  The militant rushed forward again, raising the knife.

  BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!

  The fighter pumped bullet after bullet into the attacker's torso. "Armor-piercing" 9x19mm 7N21 rounds tore through flesh and Kevlar, but the fanatic, pumped with combat drugs, kept coming on inertia, like a zombie, until the pistol slide locked back.

  The last bullet entered the neck, severing the vertebrae.

  The body collapsed onto the floor half a meter from the Spetsnaz soldier's boots, continuing to convulsively scratch the concrete with its claws.

  "Fox," breathing heavily, swapped the magazine with a practiced motion. The slide clicked home. He walked up to the wheezing enemy.

  "Control."

  A single shot to the head ended it. The body twitched and went still.

  "Second, status!" the earpiece exploded with the operation commander's voice.

  "In the far passage, bitches are holding firm!" roared the commander of the second group in response, shouting over the crackle of bursts. The Vant shield was already covered in a web of cracks from hits. "They've got a machine gun! Help us, dammit! Third, take them in the rear from the second passage! We'll pinch them and they're fucked!"

  Another voice burst onto the airwaves, full of rage and tension:

  "'Second,' this is 'Third'! Negative! It's a clusterfuck here too! The motherfuckers in the attic were lying low, dammit! They're hammering through the floorboards with armor-piercing! Pounding us hard! We're pinned! Can't help! Handle it yourselves!"

  The battle disintegrated into a series of brutal duels for every room, for every meter of the dirty corridor...

  Target: "Warehouse". Perimeter Cordon.

  Three hours after the assault ended. Time: 03:15.

  "'Center', this is 'Squall'. Report. Perimeter cleared. Secondary sweep complete. No booby traps found. Sector is clean!" The voice of the assault team commander sounded hollow over the airwaves, heavy with the leaden fatigue that follows an adrenaline crash.

  "Copy that. Send in the 'Sanitizers' and the 'Eggheads'. Out," Kupriyanov replied from the command van.

  The warehouse building, which had recently thundered with explosions, was now bathed in the ghastly pale light of portable halogen floodlights set up by the forensics team.

  The site of the slaughter had turned into an open-air laboratory. People in white protective coveralls, looking like astronauts, moved slowly among the bodies, placing number placards and clicking camera shutters. The smell of burning and blood was overpowered by the sharp scent of antiseptics.

  The most important phase of the operation had begun—analyzing exactly what they had clashed with. And the first conclusions were enough to turn even experienced GRU officers gray.

  On a makeshift table constructed from crates, a ballistics expert in rubber gloves turned a captured weapon over in his hands.

  "Curious... Very curious," he muttered under his breath, illuminating the receiver with a headlamp. "Comrade Major, take a look."

  Kupriyanov stepped closer.

  "What's the verdict?"

  "This isn't a 'zip gun'. And it's not an import from Mu. This is factory-made, serial production, and high-precision class at that."

  The expert set the assault rifle on the table. It was angular, predatory, made of blued steel and a dark, high-impact polymer that felt warmer to the touch than plastic.

  "The action is gas-operated, locking with a tilting bolt. Ergonomics... strange, but well-thought-out. Remotely resembles early models of the Belgian FN FAL, but the receiver is stamped. Box magazine, straight, twenty-five round capacity. The caliber—it's not ours. Calipers show 6.8 millimeters. Brass casing, percussion primer. Powder is smokeless, with chemical additives. No magic. Pure mechanics."

  "Meaning, not natives with muskets," Kupriyanov nodded grimly. "This is an industrial power."

  "Let's move on," the expert moved to the bodies.

  Examination of the militants' corpses shocked even the seen-it-all FSB medics.

  These were not fanatics in robes.

  "Presence of individual armor protection (IAP) confirmed," the pathologist dictated into a voice recorder, cutting open a dead man's tactical vest. "Armor plates are composite: ceramic over a steel backing. Quality is comparable to our Class 3 or 4. Load-bearing systems are modular. And this... this is really bad..."

  He pointed to the dead man's face.

  He was wearing a mask—a complex, multi-filter isolation gas mask integrated into the hood.

  "Closed-cycle rebreather. They knew we would use chemicals. They were prepared for a CBRN attack. That explains why the group on the third floor held out for so long."

  The outcome of the battle was severe: six fighters from the elite FSB "Alpha" assault team and SSO were wounded. Two were critical—bullet wounds in the armor joints; one concussed by a grenade. At the moment, thanks to Elven healers and field surgery, their lives were not in danger, but the very fact of such losses in a battle "on home soil" spoke volumes. The enemy snapped back professionally. They knew how to hold sectors, worked in teams, and didn't panic.

  The uniforms attracted particular attention.

  All the liquidated militants (they were dubbed "Cleaners" for their efficiency) were dressed identically. Dense, fire-resistant synthetic fabric of a light azure, almost sky-blue color. There was no camouflage pattern, but the cut—with a multitude of pockets, drawstrings, and reinforcements on the elbows—painfully resembled the uniform of the SAS (British Special Air Service) from the late 20th century. Only the color was absurd for night operations... unless they were used to fighting during the day against the backdrop of the sky.

  All these facts made the brains of Russian counterintelligence boil from overheating.

  Who are they? Where are they from? Gra-Valkas Spetsnaz under a false flag? Or another country we don't know about yet? But why azure?

  From the pockets and pouches of the dead, they began to extract "small stuff"—silent evidence of the existence of a whole world that Russia knew nothing about. And these things screamed louder than cannons.

  "Look here," an operative laid the findings into a plastic bag.

  1. Watches. Mechanical, wrist-worn, shockproof. There was no brand name on the dial, only a logo in the form of a stylized wing and numerals from an unknown alphabet. This wasn't the handiwork of a lone watchmaker; this was mass-produced stamping.

  2. Personal Effects. A pried-open locket on the neck of the team leader. Inside was a miniature color photograph protected by glass. The photo showed a woman of unearthly, cold beauty with ash-colored hair and strange, vertical pupils. She was smiling, but a chill radiated from the photo. Wives of the militants? Or someone else?

  3. Ammunition. Fragmentation grenades, shaped like the American M67 (baseball), but with ribbed scoring like our defensive RGO or F-1. The fuse was a typical striker-release mechanism, but with a delay marked by colored rings. Standardization.

  4. Daily Life. In the pocket of one of the shooters, an opened pack of cigarettes with a charcoal filter was found. The pack had silver embossing and a name in the same unknown language. The tobacco, judging by the smell, was high quality, with an admixture of unfamiliar herbs.

  Kupriyanov turned the pack over in his hands. Cellophane wrapper, tear tape, tax stamp...

  "They have tobacco factories. They have a chemical industry. They have photo paper and color printing," he stated quietly. "We are not fighting a sect. We are fighting a State. And it is somewhere nearby."

  City of Beales. Main Directorate of Internal Affairs.

  Restricted Access Sector. Office of the Investigation Team Leader.

  Four days after the warehouse assault. Time: 19:45.

  A blue-gray, layered fog of tobacco smoke stood in the office. The ventilation system, designed by local craftsmen, clearly couldn't handle the intense rhythm of the Russian specialists' work, which hadn't paused for a single hour over the last four days. Tables were piled high with protocols, printouts from crypto-analyzers, and photos of the seized arsenal—those very assault rifles of an "unknown system" and communication devices that had baffled even the experts from the GRU.

  Eduard Kupriyanov stood by the window, cradling the receiver of the Sfera secure communications device against his shoulder, watching the fading sunset over the city, which seemed peaceful but was now perceived as a minefield.

  "…Yes, sir, Comrade Major General. The entire array of primary data, including DNA samples and micro-particles from the clothing of the liquidated subjects, was sent by special flight to Moscow an hour ago. The personnel of Alpha Group have been pulled into reserve for recovery; the wounded are in stable condition," Kupriyanov's voice was hoarse but distinct. He stood at attention, even though his interlocutor couldn't see him. "We understand the gravity of the situation, Vladimir Ivanovich. Yes... This changes the entire picture of the TO (Theater of Operations)... Yes, sir. We will handle it in the best possible way, Comrade Major General. All the best."

  The heavy receiver landed on the cradle with a loud click, cutting off the comms channel with Moscow.

  The Center demanded answers. Not hypotheses, not guesses about a mythical Ravernal, but clear coordinates, names, and targets. Analysis of the trophies confirmed the worst fears: a state machine with industrial potential comparable to Earth's late 20th century was working against them. And this machine was preparing something massive.

  Kupriyanov rubbed his face wearily, feeling the three-day stubble rasp under his fingers. He took a cigarette from the pack, flicked his Zippo lighter, and took a greedy drag. The flame flashed brightly in the semi-darkness, illuminating his sunken eyes.

  He leaned back in his chair and stared sadly at the ceiling, where a lone fly circled. Four days of "intelligent" interrogations of the prisoners who survived the assault had yielded nothing. They were silent. Not because they were heroes—they had a psychological block, and possibly a magical implant. Chemistry ("truth serum"), even the magic of Qua-Toyne mentalists, shattered against a deaf wall of fanaticism or artificial amnesia. The prisoners slipped into catatonia, raved, recited mantras, but didn't give up their handlers.

  The time for diplomacy and the Code of Criminal Procedure had run out. At stake was the security of the entire troop grouping and allied states.

  Eduard exhaled smoke sharply through his nostrils, making a decision that would weigh on his conscience but save lives. He massaged the bridge of his nose with his fingers, chasing away a migraine, and with a decisive movement picked up the internal intercom receiver. His fingers quickly dialed the three-digit number of the special bloc's internal prison.

  "Duty officer, connect me with Captain Ignatenko."

  "Yes, sir..." a tense male voice answered on the other end of the line. The sounds of iron doors and the echo of corridors could be heard. "Connecting. Hold."

  The speaker hissed, then came the characteristic click of the line switching.

  Captain Ignatenko, commander of the joint group of "special profile" interrogators, a former employee of one of the GRU's closed prisons, was waiting for this call. He and his people knew how to untie the tongues of those who remained silent even in the face of death. They had their own toolkit—a mixture of surgery, pharmacology, and applied psychology of pain.

  After a short beep of the buzzer, Kupriyanov, looking at the smoldering tip of his cigarette, spoke in an icy, emotionless voice, signing the death warrant of his own humanity for the sake of duty:

  "Green light, Captain. Proceed under Protocol Zero. Chemicals, electricity, magic—use everything. Beat the information out of this scum. By any means necessary. I need the base coordinates before morning."

  "Yes, sir, Comrade Colonel," the captain answered on the other end of the wire, and his voice held only professional readiness to begin the dirty but necessary work.

  Special Interrogation Room No. 10

  Time: 11:15 p.m.

  The stream of words—mixed with bloody saliva and a ragged wheeze—didn't stop for forty minutes. The militant, completely broken, turned himself inside out, spilling everything he knew. His testimony painted a picture that made Ignatenko's frown deepen by the minute.

  The information was fragmentary, but disturbingly specific. Those very "Azure Ones," whose bodies the forensics team was now bagging in the warehouse, were not self-taught fanatics. They were instructors. Top-tier professionals.

  The captive—a former sergeant of the shattered army of the Kingdom of Louria who had drifted into mercenary work out of sheer desperation—spoke with superstitious terror about how those silent, masked men had trained them. Not to "swing a sword," but to work in pairs, hold sectors, control descents, and move through urban terrain.

  "They… they never said where they were from," the militant rasped, shaking his head. "They paid in gold. Imperial gold. Old minting. Never showed their faces. Breathed through those… hoses."

  The picture was ugly. No names. No coordinates of a main headquarters. The rank-and-file infantry had no idea who was pulling the strings. All the key figures—recruiters, mage-coordinators—had either slipped away through the sewers before the assault began or blown themselves up along with their communications gear, turning into unidentifiable pulp. This "chunk of meat" strapped to the chair was a dead end. Disposable material—used and discarded.

  Ignatenko slowly straightened, working the stiffness out of his back. The recorder blinked red, saving the file.

  The captain looked at the prisoner. The man had gone quiet, staring at him with his one remaining eye, full of a hope so nauseating it made Ignatenko's stomach turn. He was waiting for what had been promised. Relief from the pain. Sleep.

  "I… I've told you everything…" he whispered through shattered lips. "The shot… you promised…"

  "I keep my word, soldier," Ignatenko said dully.

  His hand slid to his belt holster. Instead of a syringe, he drew a heavy, blued SR-1M Vector pistol—the modernized Gyurza.

  It was the most humane thing he could do. A trial, hard labor, rotting alive from his injuries—that would have been sadism. A bullet was mercy. And security. There could be no witnesses.

  The captain pressed the oil-scented barrel to the militant's forehead.

  "Sleep."

  BANG!

  The dry, solid crack of a 9×21 mm SP-10 round slammed against the ears in the confined space. The prisoner's head snapped back, and a dark, thick splash spread across the felt-lined wall behind him. The body sagged in the restraints, finally stopping its trembling.

  The analgesic worked instantly—and forever.

  Ignatenko flicked the safety on and holstered the pistol. He pulled the blood-sticky gloves from his hands and, with disgust, tossed them into the corner—right onto the corpse.

  "Get this shit out of here," he waved his subordinates toward the body. "Full cleanup. Nobody was here. Wash the floor with bleach."

  He walked over to the wall-mounted intercom and pressed the call button. The ringing in the receiver felt deafening in the sudden silence.

  "Duty officer, put me through to the colonel."

  "Yes, Captain?" Kupriyanov's voice came almost instantly, as if he'd been sitting there waiting for the call, staring at the phone. It carried the same tension. The same exhaustion.

  Ignatenko rested his forehead against the cold wall, closing his eyes.

  "Comrade Colonel," he said, watching the "orderlies" unbuckle the straps from the dead body. "Some things have become clearer…"