The Holy Mirishial Empire. Port City of Cartalpas.

  Inner Roadstead. Five days after the battle.

  The flagship pre-dreadnought battleship of the Superpower Mu, La Kasami, entered the harbor not as a victor, but as a ghost. Its survival had been a mixture of blind luck and the cruel irony of war. At the very beginning of the torpedo attack, a stray piece of shrapnel had severed the steering linkages, and the ship, having lost control and described a circle, ran aground on a sandbar outside the main fairway. This saved it from the steel "fish" of Gra-Valkas, which passed deeper, tearing the rest of the squadron apart.

  Now, hastily patched up, pulled off the shoal, and smoking from its single surviving funnel (the second had been sheared off like it was cut by a razor by a 127mm shell hit), it limped toward the pier. Its sides resembled a colander, and its superstructures were black with soot.

  When the ramp touched the pier with a crash, it was not officers in dress uniforms who stepped ashore first, but gray, staggering shadows.

  The sailors of Mu, technocrats and atheists, upon stepping onto solid ground, fell to their knees. Grown men, who had seen their comrades torn to pieces, sobbed openly, kissing the dirty cobblestones and whispering thanks to all the gods they had never believed in before.

  In the surviving port taverns, where exquisite wine used to be served, there now hung the heavy stench of cheap alcohol and unwashed bodies.

  The officers of La Kasami and the surviving commanders of the coastal Imperial Defense drank without clinking glasses. In silence. They drowned out the memory of the wailing sirens and the whistling bombs; they washed away the fact that their "invincibility" had turned out to be a myth. They looked at each other with glassy eyes, in which the same question could be read: "How are we going to fight against this tomorrow?"

  The Destroyed Quarters of Cartalpas.

  The city had changed. The wind no longer carried the scent of the sea and flowers from the Imperial Gardens. Now the air was thick, gray-yellow from the hanging concrete dust and a sweet, nauseating scent that could not be confused with anything else—the smell of decomposing flesh beneath the rubble.

  Five days after the strike, when the Empire's own rescue services, paralyzed by shock and a loss of command, began to choke, the Emperor, gritting his teeth, granted permission.

  The 6th Independent Rescue Brigade of the Russian EMERCOM (Center for Special Risk Operations "Leader") entered the city.

  It looked like an alien invasion. Amidst the medieval (albeit magical) devastation, huge white KAMAZ and Ural trucks with orange and blue stripes appeared. Men in strange uniforms, wearing respirators and helmets with flashlights, worked quickly, cohesively, and silently.

  They did not chant spells. They fired up diesel generators.

  The clatter of Russian jackhammers and the roar of heavy engineering vehicles (bulldozers, Liebherr cranes) clearing the debris drowned out the weeping. Where Mirishial mages tried to levitate stones, depleting their mana in an hour, a Russian excavator cleared a path to a basement in five minutes.

  The mood in the city was schizophrenic.

  Part of the survivors, having lost their families under the bombs, had gone mad with grief. Queues stood at the Imperial Defense recruitment centers.

  Yesterday's clerks, magic students, shopkeepers—filthy, with inflamed eyes—demanded weapons. They wanted to tear the Gra-Valkan "demons" apart with their bare teeth, not understanding that their rage was powerless against aircraft carriers.

  Others were broken. They sat on the ruins of their homes, staring into the void, or wandered aimlessly through the streets, begging for a sip of water.

  The Russian rescuers deployed a mobile "Tsentrospas" hospital right in the square in front of the destroyed Opera House.

  "Over here! Get a stretcher! Grid three, we found a live one, a child!" the squad commander shouted in Russian, and his words were translated into the common tongue by an automated translator.

  An EMERCOM officer with a "RUSSIA" patch on his sleeve handed a grimy, dehydrated elven boy to the doctors. The boy grabbed onto the rescuer's jacket and did not want to let go.

  The local residents watched these stern men from the north with awe-struck fear. Those whom propaganda labeled "barbarians" were now feeding them porridge from field kitchens and dragging their loved ones back from the other world, while the "enlightened" politicians in Runepolis divided the remnants of power.

  Cartalpas was dying as a symbol of grandeur, but surviving as a city of wounded and embittered people who, for the first time, saw that there is a power in this world that requires no prayers, but simply gets the job done.

  Residential Zone "C," humanitarian aid distribution point.

  Day seven following the bombardment.

  "It's you!.. This is all your fault!" a young woman screamed hysterically, her voice breaking from the strain. She was sitting right in the mud, clutching the small body of her child, wrapped in a blood-soaked curtain, to her chest, rocking back and forth.

  An EMERCOM sergeant tried to approach with water, but she recoiled, staring at him with mad eyes.

  "Don't touch me! Murderers! You stood on the sidelines! You watched as we were burned! You have iron birds, you have power! You could have shot them down! If not for your damned indifference... none of this would have happened!"

  The sergeant froze, not knowing how to respond. There was a terrible, irrational truth of grief in her words. The Russian fleet had stood nearby and watched. It was an order, politics, "higher interests." But explaining that to a mother rocking a corpse was impossible.

  A dull murmur was rising in the crowd of refugees standing in line for porridge and water. It was like a spark in dry hay. Saddened Mirishials who lost everything, whose imperial pride was trampled into the dust by defeat, were looking for someone to blame. The enemy had flown away. The government was hiding. But these ones—strangers, strong, well-fed, clean—were here, right before their eyes.

  "She's right!" someone barked from the crowd. A hulking man, reeking of booze and smoke, pushed his way forward. His camisole was torn, and he gripped a jagged piece of rebar in his hand. "Showed up here, acting all kind! To take pictures on our bones!"

  Sometimes things like this happened, when grief blew the fuses of reason. Men, driven mad by horror or having drowned their sorrow in alcohol, threw themselves at those extending a helping hand.

  The conflict flared up instantly, like gunpowder.

  A stone flew at the EMERCOM worker. It hit a driver in the shoulder.

  "Ah, you son of a bitch!" the rescuer exhaled.

  The crowd swayed. A dozen enraged men attacked the three staff members standing in the cordon of the field kitchen. A brawl began—dirty, vicious, and stupid.

  The trills of police whistles were heard, but the local law enforcement, demoralized and frightened, were in no hurry to intervene, afraid of their own people.

  "Take that, bitch! Eat dirt!"

  Sergeant Sivachenko, a hand-to-hand combat instructor in his "civilian" life, acted on autopilot. Reflexes worked faster than thought.

  When a sweaty hulk rushed at him with a roar, Sergei, without removing his heavy gauntlets, ducked under his arm, lowered his center of gravity, and executed a classic hip throw.

  The attacker's body described an arc in the air and slammed into the broken brick of the pavement with a dull, bone-crunching crack. The hulk went limp.

  "Stay down!" Sivachenko barked, adding a short punch to the jaw for good measure, turning out the lights. "We're bringing you fucking water, and you..."

  He didn't have time to finish. His peripheral vision caught the glint of metal.

  Another one was rushing him—in the rags of a guardsman's uniform, face twisted with hate. In his hand, he gripped a trophy falchion—a heavy cleaver with a wide blade. The strike was aimed at the neck. Not to scare—to kill.

  Sivachenko braced himself. A block with his forearm, protected by the jacket's Kevlar insert—against the wrist of the armed hand. A jerk towards himself, twisting the hand outward. The crunch of a joint.

  The Mirishial screamed; the knife clattered onto the asphalt.

  Sergei didn't stand on ceremony. He kicked the weapon away with his combat boot, spun the attacker with his back to him, and forcefully drove his face, protected by a helmet, into the back of the man's head, simultaneously driving a knee under the ribs. The opponent folded in half and collapsed into a fetal position, gasping for dusty air. This was Sivachenko's fourth "patient" in that minute.

  But there were too many of them. The crowd was pressing in, crushing the barriers.

  Suddenly, the air was torn apart by a thunderous roar, amplified by the PA system of a siren unit.

  "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, YOU DEVILS! FREEZE!"

  An armored military police "Tigr" vehicle, which had been punching through the debris, braked sharply. A major leaned out of the hatch, pointing the barrel of a Yarygin pistol into the sky.

  BANG! BANG!

  Two dry, whipping shots hammered against eardrums, forcing the crowd to instinctively crouch and cover their heads. Silence hung instantly, broken only by the whimpering of the beaten.

  The Major jumped to the ground, never letting go of his radio or pistol. His face was red with rage, his voice rasping:

  "Stop this shit immediately! Everyone—two steps back! Did you hear me?! Do you have a death wish?!"

  In the harsh light of the "Tigr's" headlights cutting through the dusty gloom, the figures froze—battered EMERCOM staff with bloody noses and frightened, sobering-up locals.

  "Break it up! The circus has left town!" the Major continued to pressure with his voice, realizing that shooting into a crowd meant a tribunal and an international scandal. "Civilians—to the left, behind the line! Personnel—form up by the vehicle! Move it, I said!"

  The mass of people, grumbling and snapping back, began to slowly disperse. The crowd had lost its spark.

  The Major walked up to his own. He inspected Sergeant Sivachenko: a split lip, bruised knuckles, the wild look of a cornered wolf. And three groaning locals at his feet.

  "Sergeant Sivachenko!"

  "Here!" he stood at attention, trying to fix his torn tunic.

  "What are you, Rambo? Why are you causing a diplomatic incident?" the Major asked quietly, so only his own could hear. Understanding could be read in his eyes (good job, you're alive), but regulations demanded otherwise. "Four against one? A regular fucking Hero."

  "They had knives, Comrade Major..." Sivachenko croaked, nodding at the falchion.

  "I see the knives. That's why you're alive." The Major raised his voice for the audience. "For violating discipline and getting involved in a brawl with the local population—four extra duties out of turn! Do you understand me?! You'll scrub toilets until you attain enlightenment!"

  "Yes, sir, four extra duties!"

  "Get in the vehicle, on the double! And for these ones," he nodded at the lying instigators, "call a medic. And hand them over to the Imperial Guard; let them deal with their own."

  The incident was over. On paper, it would pass as a "domestic conflict based on stress," but every Russian standing there learned a lesson: in this world, even those you save might stab you in the back because you are too strong to die along with them. And as for Sergeant Sivachenko, in the evening, the guys would silently pour him a mug of pure spirit—duty is duty, but life is more precious.

  Second Civilized Region. Superpower Mu. Capital Otaheit.

  Central Military Command (General Staff). Strategic Planning Hall.

  Two months after the fall of Cartalpas.

  In the huge underground bunker, lined with riveted steel sheets, hung a blue-gray, dense fog of cigar smoke that even the powerful ventilation system could not pull out. Incandescent lamps in brass fixtures flooded the tables with an anxious yellow light. But the silence that stood here was more terrifying than the roar of cannonade. It was the silence of a morgue where patients, still alive but already knowing their diagnosis, had gathered.

  Around the giant tactical map occupying the center of the hall stood the highest officers of Mu—men in gray uniforms, veterans of colonial campaigns, engineers, and strategists. But right now, they looked like schoolchildren who had failed an exam.

  Remembering the recent "Conference of Eleven," many of them averted their eyes, feeling burning shame. Back then, two months ago, when a young woman in a gray tunic threw the ultimatum "Knees or death" in the world's face on behalf of her Emperor—they laughed. They cracked jokes, discussing the impudence of the barbarians from the west. Now that laughter stuck in their throats like a bone.

  Reality turned out not to be funny. It was monstrous.

  "Repeat the situation report on the maritime theater," the Chief of the General Staff asked hoarsely, an admiral whose hands trembled treacherously as he poured water into a glass.

  "The Allied fleet is destroyed," the chief of intelligence responded hollowly, outlining the Falk Strait zone with a pointer. "The Holy Mirishial Empire has lost its best ships. Cartalpas—the trading heart of the world—lies in ruins. The coastline is scorched. The port is destroyed. And all this was done by... one ship. One vessel, gentlemen."

  A murmur of horror swept through the hall. Atlastar. This name was now whispered like the name of an ancient demon.

  Information about the defeat was classified at the highest clearance level to prevent panic among the population. But here, in this bunker, they knew the truth. From the interrogations of the concussed captain of La Kasami, who miraculously survived that meat grinder, and the decryption of logbooks, a picture of absolute powerlessness emerged.

  "We cannot reach them," the general of the ground forces interjected, nervously crumpling a map. "Their aviation is faster, their guns hit further, their shells pierce any magical protection. Right now, Gra-Valkas vanguard battalions are landing on the islands to our west. They have declared total war on the Second Civilized Zone. A war of extermination."

  The general fell silent, looking at the symbols of enemy divisions, which, like cancerous metastases, were spreading across the map toward the borders of Mu.

  "We have nothing to oppose them with. Our army is a police force. We chased insurgents with flintlock muskets and suppressed riots in the outskirts. We know how to hold parades. But what is coming at us... is Industrial Death. Mobile, numerous, ruthless."

  But the scariest thing was not the technical gap. The scariest thing was the understanding of exactly what this war would look like.

  The generals of Mu remembered the gift presented to them by Russian diplomats even before this hell began. Heavy tin reels with film. Movies about the Great Patriotic War from Russia's world.

  Last night, trying to understand the psychology of advanced warfare, the high command arranged a closed screening. They chose a film with the harmless title Come and See.

  It was a mistake. Or, perhaps, the cruelest lesson of their lives.

  Instead of bravura marches and heroic cavalry charges, they saw dirt. Saw villages burned alive. Saw the eyes of a child who turned gray in two days. Saw the mundane, assembly-line work of the Einsatzgruppen, methodically exterminating untermenschen.

  Old warriors who seemingly had seen everything left the cinema hall with gray, dead faces. Someone vomited in the toilet. Someone smoked one after another, shaking as if in a fever. Someone just sat in the dark until the credits ended, stunned by realization.

  They saw a mirror. They saw what Gra-Valkas, with their ideology of superiority and black uniforms, was bringing to their world.

  "A nightmare..." whispered one of the marshals, looking into the void. "Russia went through this hell and survived. Defeated such an enemy. That's why they are so... tough. And we? We are children playing with toy soldiers in the face of a butcher."

  The generals exchanged glances. There was no superpower arrogance left in their eyes. There was only animal fear and the understanding: if they didn't find a way to stop this iron avalanche, Come and See would become not a newsreel of an alien world, but a documentary about the end of Superpower Mu.

  The silence in the bunker was short-lived. It burst like an abscess.

  In the heads of generals accustomed to the gentlemanly wars of ironclads and biplanes, the puzzle finally came together. They added two and two: the atrocities in Irnetia reported by spies, and that horror the Russians showed them on film.

  Now they understood: they were facing not a rival for trade routes. They were facing an enemy who thinks in categories of total extermination of "subhumans." You cannot negotiate with the Gra-Valkas Empire; you cannot buy them off with territories. These are real, industrial demons in gray uniforms, and they are already standing at the doorstep, warming up the engines of their tanks.

  The hall exploded.

  The humming grew into a roar. Dozens of officers shouted simultaneously, interrupting each other, venting anger and fear. Someone proposed immediate general mobilization, someone—evacuation of industry.

  "ENOUGH!"

  The sound of a fist hitting the oak tabletop sounded like a howitzer shot. The old Marshal, commander-in-chief of the Defense Forces, stood up abruptly. His face filled with blood, the scar on his cheek turned white.

  "What is this circus you've arranged?! A market square?! Stop the panic! You are officers of the General Staff, not fishmongers! The enemy is at the gates! If we cannot cope on our own—and we, let's be honest, cannot—pride needs to be shoved up the ass and help must be sought!"

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  The hall fell silent, but the tension went nowhere. It hung in the cigarette smoke.

  "From whom?" into this deaf silence rang the voice of one of the fleet generals, full of universal, black anguish. He looked at the table. "Mirishial? They just got their snouts dipped in humus right in front of our eyes. Their 'invincible' fleet is feeding the fish. They themselves are trembling behind their walls."

  "From Russia," the head of the advanced development department (an associate of Myrus) said firmly. "They are powerful. Their weapons are orders of magnitude deadlier than those of Gra-Valkas. You saw their ships in port. Saw their missiles on the ranges. They can stop this madness in a week."

  Heads of everyone present turned sharply toward him. The looks varied: from hope to hatred.

  "They are cowards!" squealed a young aviation general, jumping from his seat. "Cynical, calculating nonentities! They abandoned us to the mercy of fate! They watched as Atlastar smashed our allies to smithereens! What was all their parade of hardware worth if at the decisive moment, the use from them is zero?! They made a deal with the devil!"

  "Shut your trap, boy! Before I shut it myself and rip off your shoulder boards!" barked a third general, a veteran of border wars, understanding that wars are not won with emotions.

  A fight was brewing. Right in the war council hall.

  "SILENCE!" the Marshal's voice whipped ears again, forcing the arguers to freeze. He leaned heavily on the map with his hands. "Listen to me. And listen carefully."

  He swept his gaze over his subordinates, assessing their state.

  "Officially, according to the Foreign Ministry note, the Russian Federation declared 'Armed Neutrality.' They will not enter the war directly. They have, as our diplomatic intelligence reported, tacit agreements with the Gra-Valkas Empire on non-aggression at the initial stage. They tied their hands with politics."

  A sigh of disappointment swept through the hall.

  "But..." The Marshal paused. "Politics is the art of the possible. The art of lies."

  "What do you mean, sir?"

  "Yes, we are abandoned to the mercy of fate. Formally, we will have to fight alone against a steel steamroller. But unofficially..." the gray-haired Marshal suddenly allowed himself the shadow of a crooked, lupine smile that didn't fit the situation at all. "...The Russian Federation will provide us assistance. But not as a state. As a business partner."

  Officers exchanged glances.

  "Business?.."

  "Recently," the Marshal lowered his voice, as if afraid of wiretaps, although the bunker was shielded, "a special representative from the Russian embassy dropped by our Department of Foreign Affairs without much noise. Mr... Petrov."

  The Marshal picked up a folder from the table.

  "Several large Russian corporations are registered and operating in Superpower Mu. Construction, mining, logistics. They have warehouses, equipment, personnel here. Huge investments. And according to international law, they have the right to hire security to protect their property in wartime conditions. The Russians call this PMC—Private Military Companies."

  He looked at the bewildered faces of his colleagues.

  "You still don't understand what I'm driving at, gentlemen?"

  "No sir, Comrade Marshal."

  "It is an invisible army, gentlemen officers," the Marshal leaned back in his chair, and evil excitement flashed in his eyes. "Magnificent, cynical political camouflage from their world. You didn't declare war on the enemy. Your soldiers don't wear your country's chevrons. Your flag doesn't rise over the battlefield. However, your professionals, armed with your best weapons, crush the enemy without any political sanctions or declarations of war, protecting some warehouse full of underpants. It is a brilliant solution... And we will use it. The Russians will provide us with consultants and security. And we will give them targets."

  The meeting continued deep into the night, but now the bunker smelled not only of fear but also of a timid hope that the devils from the West would find worthy rivals from the East.

  At the same time. The Gra-Valkas Empire.

  Imperial Capital — Ragna. Government District.

  Headquarters of the Bureau of Intelligence and Information Warfare.

  Time: 14:00 local time.

  Outside the windows of the tall, monumental building constructed in the style of heavy imperial classicism, a cold, driving rain poured down.

  The sky over Ragna was customarily gray, choked with industrial smog.

  In Director Hamidall's spacious office, semi-darkness reigned, dispersed only by the light of a desk lamp. There were no decorations on the walls—only detailed maps of the world speckled with flags, and a portrait of the Emperor.

  Cielia Oudwin stood at attention before the desk, hands clasped behind her back. Her uniform was impeccable, her face impenetrable, but inside, everything trembled with tension. She had just finished a ninety-minute report on the failure at the Conference, the frightening awareness of the Russians, and the price they had to pay for the return of the scouts from the Grade Atlastar.

  "…Thus, the Russians have demonstrated not only full knowledge of our operational codes but also the ability to intercept our teams deep in their rear without making a fuss. Their position of armed neutrality is a smokescreen, Your Excellency. They are buying time. Report concluded," she finished, staring at a spot above her superior's head.

  Director Hamidall, sitting in the shadows, slowly closed the thick folder stamped "Secret." He wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose. The information wasn't just alarming. It confirmed his worst fears: the Empire had gotten involved in a war with a predator in its rear that could see right through them.

  "Understood," he finally uttered.

  The man clasped his hands together, leaned back in his leather chair, and looked at his best protégé with a heavy, appraising gaze. There was no anger in his eyes, only cold pragmatism.

  "From a political point of view, the Conference is a catastrophe. But from a military one... The Russians gave us back our agents. They did not intervene in the Battle of Magdola. That means they are not ready for an open confrontation yet. This gives us a window of opportunity."

  He picked up another paper from the desk—a cipher from the fleet.

  "Regarding Captain Luxtal's actions at Cartalpas," Hamidall smiled crookedly. "Saving drowning enemy sailors... Nobility. In peacetime, I would have demoted him for soft-heartedness. But he brought us a victory that will go down in textbooks. The destruction of the Zero Fleet justifies any eccentricities. Winners are not judged. Therefore... no sanctions will be brought against him. Let the people see a hero in him. The Empire needs heroes."

  The Director's tone changed abruptly. It became harsh, like the crack of a whip.

  "However, mercy is a luxury we cannot afford everywhere. Especially in the occupied territories of Leifor and Irnetia. Rumors of growing resistance are reaching us. The vassals are raising their heads, watching us babying prisoners at sea."

  He slammed a sheet of paper onto the desk, already signed in red ink.

  "We need balance. Since Luxtal is playing the knight, we must show the iron fist. I order the uncooperative natives from among the Leiforian nobility who refuse to collaborate... to be publicly executed. By firing squad. In the central squares. Film it on movie reels and play it in cinemas before screenings. Let them see the price of disobedience."

  He looked at Cielia.

  "You did good work, Oudwin. Despite the humiliation, you brought back intelligence worth more than a tank division. Now we know the enemy by sight. Go, get some rest. Soon we will have a lot of work to do with these Russians."

  He paused.

  "You are dismissed, Cielia. I will not keep you any longer."

  "Yes, Your Excellency."

  No emotions reflected on Cielia's pale, beautiful face, though the order for executions pricked her somewhere deep inside with the remnants of a conscience.

  She saluted sharply, military style, hand to the cockade of her peaked cap, performed an about-face over her left shoulder, and, heels clicking hollowly on the parquet, left the office, leaving the Director alone with the map of the world on which new fires were flaring up.

  Controlled Territory of the Gra-Valkas Empire.

  Former Kingdom of Leifor. City of Leiforia (Administrative Sector "West-1").

  Representation of the Foreign Affairs Bureau.

  The once-shining capital of a Superpower was slowly and painfully recovering from the firestorm of bombardment and assault. But this was not the convalescence of a patient, rather the resuscitation of a corpse for forced labor.

  Everywhere, a strained roar, alien to this world, could be heard—the engines of heavy Gra-Valkas bulldozers scraping centuries-old ruins of magical architecture into piles of construction debris. In place of the destroyed elegant mansions, angular, functional barracks made of gray concrete and prefabricated steel structures were already rising. The Empire needed warehouses and barracks, not palaces.

  Townsfolk, dreary shadows in gray robes with extinguished, dead gazes, cleared the rubble under the barrels of assault rifles held by endless patrols in mouse-olive uniforms. They wandered their native city like ghosts, deprived of a voice and even the right to look the occupiers in the eye. The majestic Empire that had dictated its will to the region for centuries had turned into a dull, broken shadow.

  The last embers of resistance had been suppressed with exemplary cruelty. Now, their charred, blackened bodies adorned the lampposts in the central square in front of the Representation, which had been turned into a parade ground. The corpses swayed rhythmically in the wind, ropes creaking, to the hoarse, irritated cawing of fat crows that had flocked to the feast. The tense, leaden atmosphere of fear had soaked into the very stones of Leiforia.

  Despite the ultimatum and the de facto state of war with Mirishial and Mu, Gra-Valkas had left a "diplomatic window" open. Not for negotiations. But for accepting surrenders and vows of vassalage.

  A heavy half-track armored personnel carrier roared across the cobblestones shattered by tank tracks.

  Inside its cramped troop compartment, reeking of old grease, exhaust fumes, and male sweat, Sivalph, the Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Holy Mirishial Empire, shook on a hard metal bench.

  His aristocratic face was pale and frozen like a stone statue, but inside, he was seething with humiliation. White-knuckled hands gripped the handle of his leather document case painfully, as if it were an enemy's throat. They were not met with honors. They were not seated in a carriage. They were shoved into this rattling tin can like prisoners of war.

  Next to him, pressing his shoulder against the cold armor, sat the ambassador from the Principality of Agartha. The poor wretch was openly panicking: his eyes darted around, he constantly wiped his sweaty palms on his robe, flinching at every bump. Opposite him, preserving the remnants of dignity, the representative of Mu froze. He sat straight, trying not to touch the walls, but his gaze occasionally slid over the Gra-Valkas soldiers sitting opposite with a gloomy professional appraisal. Imperial stormtroopers with helmets pulled low over their eyes sat relaxed, hands resting on short blued submachine guns, looking at the "high" diplomats with unconcealed bored contempt.

  In the middle of the compartment, sprawled languidly in the commander's seat, sat that same officer in the brown party uniform who had met them at the sector border. He hadn't even bothered to remember their names.

  Thirty minutes of shaking and humiliation.

  The APC braked sharply, tracks clanking. The rear ramp dropped with a screech, letting in the gray daylight.

  Before them stood the Representation building—the former Town Hall, now "decorated" with giant red-and-black banners and sandbags. An ugly scar of new power on the body of the old city.

  An escort of three submachine gunners roughly, with shoves to the back, led the diplomats down the corridors. They were brought not to a reception room, not to an office, but to some semi-basement meeting hall with bare walls and a single lamp under the ceiling. An interrogation room, not a negotiation room.

  "His Excellency will arrive soon. Wait here. Sit quietly, don't wave your hands, no magic," the officer threw out, dripping poison into every word.

  The door slammed shut with a clang. The bolt clicked.

  "Barbarians... Animals..." the Agartha ambassador whispered, sliding onto a chair.

  Ten minutes of agonizing waiting passed in the stifling silence.

  Suddenly, the door swung wide open. A man entered, at the sight of whom a lump of bile rose in Sivalph's throat. He wanted to spit in this face. From the heart.

  It was Dallas, head of the Gra-Valkas diplomatic corps. Dressed in an impeccable, pressed white suit that contrasted sharply with the mud in the streets, he looked like a master entering his wine cellar. Following him, keeping step, two guards entered and stood on either side of the doors, turning into statues.

  "Oho!" Dallas drawled falsely, with feigned surprise. His eyes, cold and tenacious, slid over those present as if over an empty space.

  He unhurriedly took a thin cigarillo from a case, flicked a lighter, lit up, and with pleasure exhaled a stream of smoke right in the direction of the Agartha ambassador, making him cough.

  "And what brings such high-ranking representatives of 'powerful' nations," he put a mocking emphasis on this word, "to our humble abode of order?"

  Dallas smiled broadly, baring his teeth, and in this smile was all the triumph of the victor, contempt for the losers, and absolute certainty that he now dictated the rules.

  Dallas's laughter and smoke in the face were the last straw. Sivalph, whose jaw muscles had been working, purple with suppressed rage, stood up sharply, knocking over his chair. He knew he was in enemy territory, knew that cutthroats with machine guns stood outside the door and his colleagues hung in the square, but the centuries-old pride of a Mirishial aristocrat overpowered the instinct of self-preservation.

  "Enough of this farce!" his voice rang with tension, trying to regain its lost authority. "In the name of the Holy Mirishial Empire, I demand an immediate official apology for the barbaric, unprovoked attack on a sovereign port! We demand full reparations for the destruction of Cartalpas' infrastructure and the deaths of civilians! And, most importantly..." Sivalph slapped the rickety table with his palm. "We demand that you immediately transmit the order to your command for the withdrawal of all occupation troops from the territories of the Empire of Leifor. This is an international crime!"

  Dallas listened to the tirade to the end without even blinking. He took a slow drag, held the smoke in his lungs, savoring the moment, and blew a ring toward the ceiling. Then he laughed. It was not the polite chuckle of a diplomat, but the frank, mocking guffaw of a master of life looking at a yapping lapdog.

  He theatrically wiped the corner of his eye with his pinky.

  "Oh... Amazing," he exhaled, shaking his head. "Mr. Sivalph, I am impressed. Your country is burning, your fleet is feeding the crabs, and you still try to speak in the tone of the lord of the universe. You have learned nothing." Dallas's face instantly became hard, the mask of mirth fell away. "What did you say at the Conference? 'If we combine our forces, we will grind you into dust,' yes? And where is the result? The result is that one of our ships brought you all to your knees. Admit the truth, Sivalph: you are just as worthless, weaklings fat on your magic, as these late Leiforians. Storytime is over."

  "What do you want?" Sivalph asked in an icy, dead tone, feeling his strength leave him.

  "Peace," Dallas smiled with just the corners of his lips, and from this smile, it became colder than in a grave. "Pax Gra Valkas. The Peace of the Empire. Whether you want it or not, we have graphically proven to you that you are weak and incapable of managing this chaos. Bow before the Throne voluntarily, become part of our system, return under the wing of the strong—and you will not only save your life but possibly multiply your power. Refuse—and our punitive-assault corps will explain the party policy to you on the ruins of your palace."

  Sivalph clenched his fists.

  "We want our prisoners of war back. Thousands of our sailors picked up by your ships. It is a question of humanity."

  "Out of the question," Dallas cut him off, taking out a new cigarillo and tapping it on the case. "They are not prisoners. They are trophies. Collateral for your compliance. And labor force. Choose: either you bow before His Imperial Majesty, or you drown in blood. There is no third option. Compromise is the lot of the weak."

  Grayed over these days, white as a sheet, Sivalph collapsed back into his chair as if his hamstrings had been cut. There were no more arguments.

  In the ensuing silence, the voice of the representative of the Superpower Mu rang out. Until then, he had been silent, trying to be a shadow, but now he understood that his turn had come.

  "Mr. Dallas. I represent the Power of Mu. Your representative at the 'Conference of Eleven,' Lady Cielia, effectively declared war on the First and Second Civilized Regions. These regions include the Superpower Mu, the entire Central World, and... the Russian Federation, which is also part of our economic zone. Do I understand your intentions correctly? are you truly ready to fight on three fronts?"

  At the mention of Russia, Dallas's eyelid twitched barely noticeably, but he quickly regained control. He remembered Hamidall's instructions: "Do not provoke the Russians unnecessarily, but show no fear."

  "We are ready to destroy anyone who stands in the path of progress," he answered evasively but harshly. "Russia... wisely chose neutrality. I advise you to follow the example of smart people. Bow, or be destroyed. My army is already loading onto transports."

  He stood up and gestured toward the door.

  "If that is all, I dare not detain you. It is time for you to write letters to your monarchs. My friendly, final warning to you: surrender painlessly. Later will be too late."

  The audience was over.

  The ambassadors of the three greatest (in the past) countries of the world, humiliated, crushed, and empty-handed, trudged toward their armored cars under machine-gun escort. The dialogue had not just failed. Diplomacy was dead. Now only guns would speak.

  Second Civilized Region. Kingdom of Sonal.

  Royal Palace. Council Chamber.

  The atmosphere in the throne room, usually filled with the whispers of intrigue and the rustle of expensive silks, was thick and stifling today, like the air before a thunderstorm. The huge windows had been draped to hide the view of the harbor, but it didn't help—everyone present knew that the sea, the kingdom's eternal protector, no longer guaranteed safety.

  Here, in a country bordering the already fallen Leifor Empire and located in the soft underbelly of the Superpower Mu, history was being written today. It was being written not with the golden ink of victories, but with the gray ash of inevitability. The emergency council was not discussing the budget or trade tariffs, but the very fact of the nation's continued existence.

  When the otherworlders—that steel locust swarm under the flag of Gra-Valkas—first invaded Leifor, shock reigned in Sonal. No one believed a colossus could collapse so quickly. But reality knocked on their doors loudly and terribly.

  The Minister of Internal Affairs, pale and with trembling hands, read a report from a border outpost. During the Festival of the Solar Vine, when the residents of the border town of Sonal took to the streets with flowers, the wind brought not music from the west, but death.

  "People heard it, Your Majesty," the minister spoke hollowly. "From the other side of the border. A continuous, inhuman roar. The thunder of explosions that rattled dishes in cupboards twenty kilometers away. And that sound... the chatter. A dry, vibrating crackle, as if a giant insect were tearing fabric."

  Now they knew what it was. Machine guns. The very same ones that had mowed down the Leifor Guard in the square. Sonal's civil defense, armed with muskets and crossbows, was useless against such things.

  But the last hope didn't die then. It died yesterday evening.

  The time for a wait-and-see attitude and reliance on their "big brother"—the Superpower Mu—had expired. The report from Sonal's naval attaché, who had returned from Maekal, read like an epitaph.

  He had seen with his own eyes the flagship La Kasami crawl into port, listing and smoking. Alone. Out of the entire squadron. Torn up, pierced in a dozen places, with melted superstructures. The pride of the Second Civilized Region, the symbol of power and technology, had been turned into a heap of scrap metal barely staying afloat.

  "Mu is not coming," the Captain of the Guard said quietly but distinctly. "Their fleet was the straw that broke the camel's back of our stubbornness. If Gra-Valkas did this to the ironclads of Mu and the magic of Mirishial... what will they do to our wooden frigates? They won't even notice us as they walk over our corpses."

  Silence hung in the hall. King Sonal IV sat on the throne, hunched over. He was not a coward, but he was a father to his people. He had seen the reports of Leifor's burned capital. He knew about the firing squads in the squares. And he understood: heroism today means genocide tomorrow.

  Resistance was mathematically senseless. Russia remained silent, hiding behind the shield of neutrality. Mirishial was humiliated. Mu was licking its wounds. They were left alone.

  The King slowly rose. The crown on his head seemed to weigh a ton. He swept his gaze over his advisors—in their eyes, he saw only a plea. A plea to save them from the fire.

  "We are a small country," the monarch's voice was broken, devoid of royal steel; it was an old, tired man speaking. "And our pride is not worth the tears of our mothers."

  He removed his glove and tossed it onto the table, next to the ultimatum from the Gra-Valkas envoys that was yet to be signed.

  "With a heaviness in my heart that will stay with me to the grave, I acknowledge the absolute power and protectorate of the Gra-Valkas Empire. My kingdom bows under the iron will of His Imperial Majesty Gralux."

  The King closed his eyes as if trying to hide from the shame.

  "I hold onto the single hope that in exchange for our submission, His Imperial Majesty will treat my people with at least partial favor and will not give the order to burn our cities... Write the dispatch to Leiforia. We surrender."

  Global Magical Ether. All-Channel Broadcast.

  Capital Leiforia. Central Square.

  Right now, invisible waves of magic pierced the space between continents, bursting into every home that possessed even the simplest communication crystal. The magical relays captured in Leifor were operating at maximum power. The image flickered, covered in static, but the essence of what was happening was horrifyingly clear.

  This "picture" flashed onto giant screens in the city centers of Mu, freezing passersby in their tracks. It appeared on the manavisions of Mirishial. It reached the mana-receivers in the dugouts of Third World partisans.

  The world was watching.

  A camera mounted on an armored car showed the scaffold—a massive wooden platform hastily thrown together right opposite the ruins of the Royal Palace. On it, staggering from beatings, stood forty-four men. Their uniforms had been turned into rags soaked in dried blood, and dirty bandages hid their eyes, but even through the pixels of the mana-screen, their military bearing was visible.

  These were fleet and staff officers who had refused to give up the minefield codes and the coordinates of secret depots. They had chosen honor.

  "ON YOUR KNEES!" the barking, shrill shout of a secret police officer slashed at the ears of millions of viewers.

  But the prisoners, even after that, remained standing.

  Then the executioners set to work. It was vile and mundane. Dull blows of forged rifle butts against hamstrings and kidneys.

  The crunch of bones was audible even through the poor microphone. The prisoners were being broken physically, forcing their bodies to submit to gravity even if their spirits resisted.

  Some were dropped face-first onto the planks. Others, unconscious, were held up by their hair so their faces faced the camera.

  Stifled moans and sobs were heard in the silence of the square—the body could not help but react to pain, and some prisoners, unable to withstand the torture in the dungeons, wept silently. But not one of them screamed "mercy." No one crawled at the feet of their tormentors. This silence of the forty-four doomed men screamed louder than any slogans. They knew they would die, but they also knew that retribution would come for every drop of their blood.

  An officer in a black leather trench coat paced in front of the line of victims. He spoke into a microphone, looking straight into the "eye" of the camera, straight into the souls of the viewers.

  "In the name of the Emperor. For criminal sabotage. For harboring enemies of the new order. For refusal to cooperate. The court-martial sentences you to the supreme measure of social protection—death by firing squad. The sentence is final."

  He stepped aside.

  A line of riflemen formed opposite the platform. Rifle barrels were raised.

  No drumroll sounded. Only the clatter of bolts.

  "Fire!"

  A dry, crackling, ragged volley tore through the air.

  Forty-four bodies twitched simultaneously, as if struck by an invisible whip. Blood sprayed onto the wood of the platform, onto the gray greatcoats of the executioners. The men collapsed.

  There was no solemnity whatsoever.

  The soldiers businesslike approached the edge of the platform and began kicking the corpses down into the mud, just as one discards unwanted sacks or defective logs.

  The sounds of falling bodies—the dull, heavy slaps of dead flesh hitting the ground—were broadcast to the entire world.

  For the Gra-Valkas Empire, the human life of a native was worth less than the bullet that ended it.

  The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the officer's face.

  "By the power and honor vested in me, I address the world," his voice was cold as a scalpel. "Watch. Remember. This is a visual aid. A lesson in the anatomy of power. This will happen to everyone—from king to peasant—who dares to raise a hand or even merely think of resisting Our Empire. We do not negotiate with the past. We destroy it. If you do not want your sons and fathers lying in this mud, surrender. Bow your knees before His Imperial Majesty. Otherwise... this fate shall become yours."

  The screen went black, leaving millions of people in darkness.

  The calculation of the Imperial psychologists was simple: paralyze the will with horror. Force the world to choke on fear.

  They were wrong.

  The unfolding horror truly gripped hearts. But not for long. The shock passed, and another feeling rushed in to fill the void. Not fear. And not awe.

  It was pure, cold, incinerating hatred.

  Anger. Rage. A readiness to tear out the occupiers' throats with their teeth.

  The execution of forty-four heroes did not break the New World. It woke it up. In all capitals, from Otaheit to the outskirts of Mirishial, and even in the offices of "neutral" Moscow, fists clenched until they turned white.

  The Empire wanted submission, but instead, it had just declared total war of extermination upon itself, in which prisoners would no longer be taken.