A month after the guns had fallen silent over the razed lands of Louria, the Russian Federation finally completed the initial stabilization of the new region. But the victory, as resounding as it was, brought not peace, but the realization of new, far more complex and large-scale challenges. In the quiet of the Kremlin's offices, at tables buried under satellite images and analytical briefs, the development of the next, decisive phase began—the expansion of influence to the West.

  President Mikhail Viktorovich stood before a huge interactive map that took up the entire wall of his office. On it, new Russian bases and industrial facilities on the continent of Rodеnius were marked with bright, pulsating points.

  This very map was a triumph of will and technology over a terrible lesson learned during the recent war with Louria, a war that had exposed the vulnerabilities of a nation suddenly stripped of its eyes in the sky. The "Great Displacement" had blinded Russia—the entire sophisticated "Sfera" satellite constellation, including the GLONASS, communications, and military intelligence systems, had been left behind in their former reality. The General Staff had been forced to fight the war with the Louria Kingdom using methods from the mid-20th century: relying on high-altitude aerial reconnaissance from spy planes, data from tactical drones like the "Orlan-10" whose range was limited to a few hundred kilometers, and reports from the Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR)'s agent network. The Kremlin and the General Staff had drawn the main, and most obvious, conclusion: without "eyes in orbit," Russia would always be just one step away from defeat in this new world, especially against foes who wielded unfamiliar magic like the wind-manipulating artifacts we'd heard whispers of from Qua-Toyne allies. Therefore, immediately after Louria's surrender, the program to restore their space-based intelligence capabilities was given the highest priority. From the "Vostochny" Cosmodrome, which had miraculously been transferred along with all its infrastructure, "Angara" and "Soyuz" launch vehicles were sent up on an emergency footing. Over the past two weeks, a minimally necessary orbital network had been deployed: several low-orbit optical and radar reconnaissance satellites of the "Lotos-S" and "Pion-NKS" series. They could not yet provide the total, real-time coverage of the old world, but they already gave them an invaluable advantage—the ability to see the complete map of this world for the first time, to look beyond the horizon to the continent of Philades and other continents of this world, and to plan their actions several moves ahead, anticipating magical anomalies or enemy fleets enhanced by those enigmatic "Tear of the Wind God" gems that powered sails faster than any diesel engine here.

  Every point on that wall was not just a symbol of victory, but the result of the realization that in the new battle for survival, the primary weapon would be information.

  "We have established a buffer zone in the east," he said, addressing a small circle of advisors. "But our western flank remains completely exposed. "Directly ahead is the Third Civilization Area and its dominant power, the Parpaldia Empire. They control the western approaches to our present position and have an established pattern of absorbing neighboring states by coercion. It is vital that we establish predictable and, where possible, friendly relationships in that corridor before they set the terms."

  The government, recognizing the strategic importance of this step, began to develop a plan to establish diplomatic relations with the Gahara Thearchy and the Fenn Kingdom—two island nations situated at the intersection of the most critical trade and naval routes. They were the key to this region.

  The Fenn Kingdom was located on an island geographically resembling an inverted comma. It stretched approximately 160 kilometers in length and 60 kilometers in width. Further to the east lay another inverted island—the homeland of the Gahara Thearchy; together, the two island nations resembled the symbol of "Yin and Yang."

  For such a delicate mission, it was not just a delegation that was assembled, but an entire expeditionary corps, drawing lessons from the Louria campaign where over-reliance on ground forces had stretched our logistics thin. From the main naval base in Baltiysk, under the cover of a gray Baltic sky, a task force sailed into foreign waters. It was led by the Project 956 destroyer Nastoychivyy—a formidable, angular vessel, a veritable floating arsenal, whose twin-barreled 130mm gun turrets and "Moskit" anti-ship missile launchers inspired awe with their appearance alone, capable of engaging magical wind-propelled fleets at ranges they couldn't comprehend. It was accompanied by two more modern, but no less deadly, Project 11540 frigates—the Neustrashimyy and its recently commissioned sister ship, the Yaroslav Mudryy. These steel predators carried not just the might of Russian arms, but the visible embodiment of an authority that was intended to be the main argument in the upcoming negotiations, demonstrating tactical superiority without a shot fired—much like how our artillery had turned Louria's charges into routs.

  The final destination of their voyage was the Fenn Kingdom—an island shaped like an inverted comma, located just a few hundred kilometers off the coast of Parpaldia. To its east, across a strait, lay another mysterious island—the Gahara Thearchy. According to SVR data obtained through the agent network in Qua-Toyne, the culture of Fenn was strikingly similar to that of samurai Japan during the Edo period. This was a cause for both interest and serious concern. If the local inhabitants did indeed possess such a strict and proud character, the diplomats would have to exercise an unprecedented level of tact. Any wrong word, any gesture deemed an insult, could lead to a diplomatic catastrophe.

  Therefore, the mission was composed of the best specialists: not just linguists, but deep experts in Eastern cultures, historians specializing in feudal societies, and experienced negotiators from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MID), capable of finding common ground with even the most intransigent of opponents—drawing from our experiences with Qua-Toyne's initial skepticism, where demonstrations of satellite imagery had bridged the gap between magic and science.

  The task set before them by the president was ambitious but clear: to achieve more than just the establishment of friendly relations. It was necessary to secure for Russia access to new markets and, most importantly, to obtain consent for the stationing of a forward naval base in Fenn.This outpost would give Russia a permanent naval presence at the intersection of the Philades eastern approach corridor and the Rodenius western sea lanes — the two routes any power would need to control if it intended to project force in either direction. The grand chess match in the New World was beginning, and Russia was making its first, decisive move on the eastern board.

  The Fenn Kingdom. The Capital, Amanoki.

  At the peak of a high hill, like a lone sentinel, stood the royal palace of Amanoki. Its curved roofs, covered in dark, almost black tiles, contrasted sharply with the snow-white walls, and the surrounding rock gardens and emerald lawns created a picture of a perfect, almost unnatural harmony. From here, from the throne room, through the wide, fully opened sliding doors, a breathtaking view unfolded: endless rice paddies, misty mountain ranges, and a distant strip of sea, glittering in the sun.

  In the very center of this silent majesty, on a simple, almost ascetic throne of dark wood, polished to a mirror sheen, sat the Sword King, Shihan. He was not looking at his subjects or at the luxury of the hall. His gaze, sharp and clear, was fixed on the horizon, as if he were trying to read the fate of his kingdom in the movement of the clouds. For this silver-haired warrior, with a face marked not by wrinkles but by scars, there was nothing more important than his blade. The ribbon of tempered steel, which now lay across his knees, was his only true friend, his harshest teacher, and his most merciless enemy. Today, Shihan awaited his councilors—not fawning courtiers, but the finest warriors in the kingdom, masters of the blade, who were to bring him the latest news from the bustling world outside.

  There was no place for ostentatious magic in the Fenn Kingdom. There were no sorcerers capable of incinerating their enemies with fireballs or erecting walls of ice. Their magic was of a different kind—hidden, subtle, and utilitarian, relying on practical tools like the Tear of the Wind God gems that could propel ships or enhance blades with ethereal sharpness, though rare and reserved for the elite. Manacomms—elegant devices of gold and precious stones—allowed those with even a drop of mana in their blood to communicate over long distances. But even in this pragmatic technology, their philosophy was reflected: the stronger one's spirit and will, the less one needed such crutches. The greatest warriors and sages, according to legend, could transmit their thoughts by the power of will alone, without any device. But that was not what determined one's status in Fenn.

  Here, everything was decided by steel.

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  It did not matter if you were rich or poor, beautiful or ugly. The only measure of a man was his ability to wield a sword. To live by the sword, to die by it—this harsh law was inscribed in the very heart of their culture. Weakness was not forgiven; the inability to defend one's honor was despised. Valor, fortitude, and absolute mastery—that was what commanded genuine respect here. A swordsman who lost a duel became an outcast, his name covered in shame. These unwritten laws had their roots deep in the centuries, and they remained unshakable.

  Shihan, the Sword King, was the living embodiment of these traditions. He sat on the throne, lost in his thoughts, his fingers unconsciously stroking the cold hilt of his katana. He knew that his every step, his every decision, was viewed by his subjects through the prism of their harsh code. He was not just a monarch. He was a symbol of their strength, their will, their honor. And he could not afford a single mistake, not a shadow of a doubt, otherwise his own people would be the first to turn their backs on him.

  Suddenly, a shoji screen slid silently open, and his chief chamberlain entered the hall—a tall man in a formal white kimono, his long hair tied in a tight knot. He knelt in a deep, respectful bow.

  "My lord. The Ten Great Swords are assembled in the Council Chamber and await your word."

  Shihan did not turn, his gaze still fixed on the distance. He took one last, deep breath, gathering his thoughts. He was ready. He knew that this day would be a turning point for his kingdom. He was confident in his own strength, but he still felt the cold weight of responsibility on his shoulders. His people, his honor, and the fate of his sword—all were at stake.

  "Very well. I am coming," he said, and his voice was as firm and as clear as the ring of steel.

  He rose slowly, and there was not an ounce of unnecessary fuss in his movement. Only the calm, deadly grace of a predator on its way to its most important hunt.

  In the council chamber, where the shadows from the tall, black-lacquered columns, which were decorated with intricate carvings of intertwining dragons, crept across the perfectly polished stone tiles, the Sword King, Shihan, stood in the center. His gaze was fixed on the void, as if he saw something invisible to the eyes of mere mortals—perhaps the very thread of his kingdom's fate. His face, already aging, was like a Noh mask, holding an absolute, almost supernatural calm, characteristic only of the true masters of the sword.

  Shihan was dressed in a dark blue ceremonial haori, artfully embroidered with silver threads depicting flying cranes, and on his back was emblazoned the crest of his house—a stylized sword piercing the sun. His posture was straight, his movements fluid and economical. From time to time, he slowly stroked his short, neat goatee, considering every word he was about to speak. In the eyes of the ten finest swordsmen in the kingdom, who had gathered here, one could read an unwavering confidence and the wisdom of their king, accumulated over hundreds of duels and dozens of wars.

  "I am pleased to welcome you, all alive and well," Shihan finally said, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching the corners of his lips. His tone was calm, almost paternal, but beneath this calm was an inner power that seemed to make the very air in the hall grow thick.

  The swordsmen, mighty and fearless in battle, bowed as one. But when Shihan continued, his voice became as hard as tempered steel, and it held an icy coldness that left no room for doubt.

  "The Parpaldia Empire is offering us their 'alliance' and 'protection' in exchange for our southern forests. The term of the lease is five centuries." He paused, his piercing gaze sweeping over each of those present. "But here is the question: from whom do they intend to protect us? When they themselves are the greatest threat to our world. I have politely refused them. And that means we are already on the brink of war. I have also sent a message to the supreme theocrat of Gahara. He has promised to send his wind dragons. But the main burden will fall on us. We live by the sword, and we will die by the sword. Let even this mighty empire understand that the people of Fenn cannot be broken, and certainly not subjugated."

  The swordsmen froze. Not a single muscle twitched on their faces, which were like stone masks. In this kingdom, any show of weakness or fear was tantamount to death. And though the heart of each of them was likely beating faster, they did not allow themselves to show it.

  Shihan held a long pause.

  "What do you think, my faithful swords?"

  The silence was almost deafening. At last, one of the eldest, a gray-haired master named Motam, raised his head. His voice held respect, but also a clear, unconcealed anxiety.

  "My liege, now is perhaps not the best time, but what are we to do with the envoys who have arrived from beyond the Eastern Ocean? They have been awaiting an audience for several days."

  Shihan frowned slightly, his mind instantly beginning to form new, unexpected combinations. The Eastern Ocean had always been a place of mysteries and long-forgotten legends.

  "I have been expecting this," Shihan said.

  Motam looked up.

  "Our merchant contacts in the Sios straits reported their ships ten days ago. Three vessels. Steel-hulled, no sails, moving against the wind at consistent speed." He paused. "I had Godan compile what we know. The Louria campaign lasted less than a season. Qua-Toyne and Quila formalized agreements within weeks of the conclusion. They have been quiet since then."

  He looked at Motam.

  "A state that moves that efficiently does not send three warships to Fenn for a courtesy call. They want something specific." He stood. "I want to know what before I give them an answer. Bring them in."

  Shihan said this calmly, but his voice now held the particular tension of a fencer who has just met a new, unknown, but obviously very powerful opponent. He had heard enough about the Louria campaign to form a working estimate. A state capable of ending a war on that continent in that timeframe was not a standard diplomatic variable. It was something to be assessed in person.

  "As you wish, my liege," Motam replied, and his voice no longer held anxiety, but a firm resolve. The mission was clear. A new, unknown variable was entering their deadly game.

  The Parpaldia Empire. The Capital, Esthirant. The Third Department of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

  An oppressive, electrified silence reigned in the spacious, almost palatial office of the Third Department, which was furnished with the cold, heavy luxury of the early 19th century. The walls, paneled in dark, intricately carved oak, seemed to absorb the light that filtered through the high Gothic windows. Heavy velvet curtains, gathered in deep folds, created a play of sinister shadows.

  In the center of this gloomy grandeur, at a massive, black-lacquered oak writing desk, sat Lord Kaios. His severe, perfectly tailored tailcoat underscored his high status. On the desk, in impeccable order, lay sharpened quill pens, a heavy crystal inkwell, and a stack of reports bound with wax seals. Beside him, as straight as a rod, stood his secretary, silently and mechanically transcribing something into a thick ledger—the living embodiment of the soulless imperial bureaucracy. The measured, almost hypnotic ticking of an old grandfather clock counted down the seconds to an inevitable explosion.

  "IMMEDIATELY! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, PARSO?!" the Director's voice, which had been quiet and ingratiating, suddenly tore through the silence like a gunshot, echoing off the high, vaulted ceiling. "RELAY MY ORDER! ASSIGN THE BEST FORCES OF THE IMPERIAL OVERSIGHT ARMY FOR A PUNITIVE EXPEDITION!"

  His palm slammed down on the desk with force. The crystal inkwell jumped, leaving a thick black blotch on the parchment, like a splatter of spilled blood.

  "WE MUST TEAR THIS WRETCHED FENN KINGDOM TO SHREDS! THESE BARBARIANS MUST LEARN THEIR LESSON, ONCE AND FOR ALL!" He straightened up abruptly, his blazing gaze fixed on his subordinate. "REMEMBER, WE ARE THE THIRD DEPARTMENT! WE DEAL WITH BARBARIAN MATTERS! IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?!"

  Parso, as pale as a sheet, gave a barely perceptible nod. His voice trembled when he replied:

  "Yes, Your Excellency."

  "And what of Altaras?" the Director snapped, giving him no time to catch his breath.

  Parso swallowed nervously.

  "Your Excellency, we have instigated several disturbances among the commoners to incite them to riot, but the local nobility…"

  "'BUT'?!" the Director roared. He leaped to his feet and began to pace the office like a caged predator. "I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR 'BUTS,' PARSO! I DON'T GIVE A DAMN WHAT MEANS YOU USE! IF NECESSARY, TAKE A SQUAD OF GUARDS YOURSELF, ENTER THEIR PALACE, AND IMPALE THEIR ENTIRE ROYAL FAMILY! RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE THRONE!"

  He stopped abruptly, and the ensuing silence was more terrifying than any shout.

  "The Empire does not need excuses. It needs results. You must make their aristocrats believe that war is their only salvation. Break their will, Parso. Make them accept our decision as their own."

  Parso nodded slowly, almost with a sense of doom, hiding the telltale tremor in his hands.

  "It will be done, Your Excellency."

  Lord Kaios walked to the wall, where his personal flintlock musket, adorned with the finest gold engraving, hung in a weapon rack. His movements became fluid and measured. He returned to the desk, sat down, and looked intently at his subordinate.

  "Do you know why you are still here, Parso?" his voice became soft, almost ingratiating. "Because you must understand. Softness and mercy are a poison that is rotting our Empire from within."

  He slowly raised the musket, admiring it.

  "If we show even the slightest weakness, these barbarians will tear us to pieces. Our task is to subjugate. To grind them into the dirt, to take their lands, their women, and their wealth, in order to magnify the glory of the Empire and to serve His Majesty. Remember that. Now, relay the order to prepare the punitive expedition. And remember, Parso… weakness is death."

  Parso bowed low, hiding his relief that the storm had passed.

  "As you command, Your Excellency."

  He quickly, almost backing away, left the office. Kaios was left alone. He raised the musket again, running his fingers over the cold metal, and whispered quietly into the echoing silence:

  "Power. It is the only language these animals understand."