The West Sea. On board the flagship magic airliner Guernic-35. The Delegation of the Holy Mirishial Empire.

  The quiet, barely audible hum of the light-compression engines, like the whisper of the air itself, was the only sound disturbing the peace aboard the Sylph, the flagship magic airliner of the Guernica-35 model. Inside the luxurious cabin, upholstered in white leather and trimmed with pale, polished wood, an atmosphere of boredom and mild arrogance reigned. The Chief Diplomat of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Philliam, stared boredly out the porthole made of a single piece of magically reinforced crystal, beyond which stretched the boundless blue sky.

  "We are almost there. Estimated time of arrival at the Russian airfield is one hour," came the calm voice of Liage, an General Supervisor of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He looked up from studying a thick folder of analytical reports, massaging his temples to relieve the tension of the long flight.

  "Finally," Philliam exhaled without turning around. A hint of sarcasm slipped into his voice. "It feels like this journey to the barbarian lands will never end. To think, a whole week of travel with refueling stops."

  A tall, stern-looking man in a full dress uniform approached them—Deputy Minister of Military Affairs Alpana.

  "I have been informed that Russia will provide fighters for our escort. Not wyverns, mind you, but airplanes. What primitive theater," he smirked.

  "It seems their technology is on the level of Mu, since they use such outdated machines," Liage noted. "I wonder what they will show us? Clumsy biplanes?"

  Philliam nodded barely noticeably. He struggled to hold back a contemptuous sneer, recalling reports of Mu's piston biplanes, which seemed to him like crude, rattling contraptions compared to the elegant, silently soaring magical vessels of the Great Empire.

  "Let us try to be objective, gentlemen. But I fear it will not be easy."

  At that moment, the Head of the Bureau of Technical Research and Development, Veruno, approached them with a look of impatient anticipation. He was the only one who looked excited rather than bored.

  "Are we arriving?"

  "Yes," Liage nodded. "Do you want to gawk at their airplanes too?"

  "Not just want to!" Veruno's eyes burned with almost childlike curiosity. "I cannot wait to evaluate the level of their primitive mechanics. To examine the gears, the pistons... To understand how these barbarians make their iron coffins fly without a single grain of magic. It will be amusing."

  Their arrogant conversation was cut off as sharply as if someone had severed a taut string. The cabin of the Sylph, previously filled only with the quiet hum of magical engines, suddenly shuddered from a deep, vibrating roar that passed through the crystal portholes and made the wine glasses on the tables tremble. Outside, at arm's length, dark, angular silhouettes swept past like four ghost sharks. They moved with such speed that the human eye could barely track them, leaving behind white, ragged contrails. A moment later, they dropped speed perfectly, with almost unnatural synchronization, and took up escort positions—two on the right, two on the left of the Mirishial airliner. They moved alongside it, but with visible ease, like mighty wolfhounds jogging beside a clumsy stagecoach.

  "How... how do they fly so fast?!" Alpana, the Deputy Minister of Military Affairs, exhaled, pressing himself against the porthole. His military composure, hardened by decades of staff work, cracked. For the first time in his life, he was seeing something move in the sky faster than their best fighters. These machines were not just flying—they were tearing through space.

  "Look at those wings!" The voice of Veruno, Head of the Bureau of Technical Research, trembled with delight and almost sacred awe. He forgot about etiquette and almost stuck to the porthole. "Those are swept-back wings! Their angle... is about thirty degrees! This... this is designed for flight at supersonic speeds!"

  He spoke quickly, feverishly, his technocrat brain working at its limit, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

  "In supersonic flight, a shock wave forms in front of the craft, a sound barrier! To handle this, the wings must be swept back," he explained, barely breathing. "They reduce wave drag, improve aerodynamics... Gods, this is genius! This is a completely different level!"

  Philliam, the Chief Diplomat, struggled to follow his enthusiastic, almost mad explanations. His aristocratic and political mind refused to accept reality.

  "But how can a country from outside the Civilized Areas be ahead of us in aviation technology?! That is absurd!"

  "They don't have propellers like Mu airplanes!" Veruno was almost shouting, his finger poking at the crystal glass, pointing at the construction of the Russian fighter. "And no magical emitters like us! But they have this! Air intakes! This... could this be not just a compression engine, but a jet engine?! A theoretical model our engineers thought impossible due to monstrous temperatures and pressure! They are forcing the air itself to burn and push them forward!"

  Philliam chuckled skeptically, clinging to the last remnants of his arrogance like a drowning man to a straw.

  "That cannot be. Our Great Empire possesses the most advanced magical technologies in the world. We study the ruins of the Ancient Ravernal Empire! We have an undeniable, God-given advantage."

  Veruno did not answer. He merely watched with awe-struck horror and admiration at the perfect, predatory, lethal forms of the Russian fighters, which were now, like an honor guard, escorting them into the very heart of a new, terrifying reality.

  Philliam was silent too, but his gaze involuntarily returned to these dark, soulless machines. Their perfect aerodynamics, their frightening elegance, their cold, mechanical beauty evoked in him an involuntary, almost repulsive, yet undeniable admiration.

  "We are flying to a country capable of creating such machines," he said quietly, almost in a whisper, more to himself than to anyone else.

  And in that moment, the aristocratic arrogance on his face was replaced for the first time by confusion, anxiety, and a vague, cold realization that the Great Empire, perhaps for the first time in its thousand-year history, was facing not barbarians who needed to be taught, but the future. And that future was absolutely hostile to them.

  The Russian Federation. Sevastopol.

  The residents of the Hero City were used to the roar of jet engines and the sight of warships moving through the harbor. But that day, they witnessed something truly unusual. An Unidentified Flying Object sliced through the sky above the city. It didn't look like anything built by human engineers; it looked like a ship from an old sci-fi movie. Its perfectly smooth, silver surface seemed to shimmer in the sun, and its streamlined, almost organic shape screamed "alien." Flanking it like an honor guard were four Su-35 fighters, their sharp, precise maneuvers demonstrating absolute air superiority.

  People on the boardwalks and streets froze, looking up in mesmerizing awe. Some hurriedly pulled out their phones, while others just stood there, unable to tear their eyes away from the incredible spectacle.

  "Aliens... It's definitely them," a young boy whispered in delight, pointing a finger at the sky.

  "Come on, that's ours. They're testing a new secret project," his father replied confidently.

  But when the mysterious ship, accompanied by the fighters, smoothly began its descent toward the Belbek military airfield, the people just shrugged and went back to their business. In this new world, full of wonders and threats, you got used to weird things quickly.

  However, few knew that this object was the magical airliner Sylph, a cutting-edge engineering marvel of the Holy Mirishial Empire—the greatest superpower of this world.

  On board, Ambassador Philliam struggled to hide his shock. When they entered Russian airspace, they were met by these... fighters. Machines that moved with unthinkable speed, performing maneuvers that would cause a wyvern pilot's heart to explode. But what he saw now shocked him even more.

  "Is that... their city?" he mumbled, staring at the panorama unfolding beyond the crystal window.

  "Yes, Your Excellency. Sevastopol," replied Liage, checking a map.

  Philliam remained silent. His brain refused to accept what he was seeing. This wasn't a barbarian fort. This was a giant metropolis sprawling along the coast. Modern skyscrapers of glass and concrete, their spires lost in the clouds, could rival the best buildings of Runepolis. Wide, multi-lane avenues were filled with thousands of self-propelled carriages. And in the massive port, right next to menacing gray warships, hundreds of luxurious white yachts were docked. All of this completely contradicted their ideas of Russia as a backward, peripheral power.

  "Just look at that," muttered Deputy Minister of Military Affairs Alpana. His voice, usually booming and commanding, had turned into a strangled whisper. "If that's not a show of force, then what is? They built a city that... that is bigger than our Cartalpas!"

  "They aren't just 'not falling behind,' Alpana," Veruno, the head of the Technical Bureau, corrected him quietly, almost with reverent horror. His fingers nervously picked at the armrest. "This city... it operates on principles we haven't even dreamed of. Look at those roads... the traffic organization... it's not chaos. It's a perfectly tuned mechanism. And all of it—without a single magic rune."

  When their elegant, seashell-like Sylph touched down softly, almost soundlessly, on the perfectly flat, black concrete runway of the Belbek military airfield, it no longer seemed like an engineering marvel. It looked like a fragile, almost out-of-place toy. Its refined, almost organic lines were lost against the backdrop of the giant, brutal Il-76 transport planes parked nearby, looking like gray steel whales washed ashore. And a bit further away, in a special parking area, three frozen giants sat—Tu-160 "White Swan" missile carriers. Their predatory, dipped noses and variable-sweep wings radiated an unconcealed, primal threat. Alpana gulped involuntarily, imagining the weapons these monsters could carry.

  Having completed their task, the Su-35 fighters made a farewell, almost mockingly elegant circle over the airfield. Then, engaging their afterburners with a deafening roar that seemed to split the sky itself, they shot vertically upward, leaving behind only the air trembling from the sonic wave.

  A group of tall, athletically built men in sharp, dark blue business suits met the delegation at the ramp. Their faces were as unreadable as golems, but their movements were confident and precise.

  "Welcome to the Russian Federation, gentlemen," one of them said in perfect Mirishial, without the slightest accent. "My name is Andrei Petrov, Deputy Head of the Department for Special Communications of the Foreign Ministry. Please, follow me."

  Ambassador Philliam, used to flattery and deep bows, was thrown off by this cold, business-like politeness. They exchanged short, firm handshakes.

  A motorcade of several luxurious black armored Aurus Senat sedans rolled up to the ramp in absolute silence. The doors opened on their own, without the help of servants. The delegates were amazed not only by the speed but by the absolute smoothness of these machines, gently swaying on the perfectly flat road. Veruno desperately tried to understand their operating principle but felt nothing—no magic, no heat, no vibration. Just quiet, inevitable motion.

  Inside, they observed the interior in complete silence. They were taken to a newly built, secure government complex on the coast—essentially a five-star hotel erected specifically for such meetings. Their spacious suites, where they could finally catch their breath, were filled with things that broke their understanding of the world: thin glass panels on the walls showing high-quality color images unlike their manavisions, faucets that dispensed freezing or scalding water at will without magic, lights that turned on with a single touch, and air conditioners that also worked without magic.

  Philliam stood by the panoramic window of his room, looking at the night city shining with millions of lights like scattered diamonds. The impressions of these few hours had completely, irreversibly overturned his ideas about the "uncivilized lands." This wasn't just another country. This was a different world. A world that turned out to be far more complex, powerful, and dangerous than he could have imagined. And they had come here to "put them in their place." At that thought, for the first time in his life, he felt true fear.

  From the personal diary of Philliam, Head of the Diplomatic Mission of the Holy Mirishial Empire:

  "It is difficult to put into words everything I saw and experienced during this one, endless day. Emotions wash over me in waves: from a childlike, almost indecent sense of wonder to the bitter, suffocating taste of ash in my mouth. I am bewildered. And I am tired. Tired from the realization that my entire life, everything I believed in, might turn out to be a lie.

  Our Great Empire, built on magic, has stood miles ahead of other nations for centuries. We explored the ruins of the Ravernal Empire, extracting secrets that allowed us to forge unprecedented might. We are the center of this world. Our dominions are boundless, and magic is the very foundation of existence. We considered ourselves untouchable. Gods among mortals.

  However, today shattered my convictions like a cheap clay cup. Russia—a country we perceived as a backward territory somewhere on the fringes of the map—has revealed itself to me in a completely different light. Their technology, their organization, their ability to forge power comparable to our highest spells out of dead metal—all of this has stunned me. I feel the unshakable pillars of my worldview crumbling.

  It is especially hard to accept that they accomplished all of this without magic. Solely with their minds, with their own hands. This stirs within me both envy and a certain primal fear. Our magic is a gift. Their science is will. And I do not know which is stronger.

  In three days, I will stand in their capital, Moscow. Negotiations await us that will alter the fate of our world. I admit, I am afraid. But at the same time, I cannot help but admire these people. They have shown me that even without the blessings of the gods, one can work miracles. And I fear that their miracles may prove stronger than ours."

  The Palace of Facets in the Kremlin. Evening.

  The soft, warm light of giant crystal chandeliers was reflected in the thousands of facets of wine glasses and the polished silver of the cutlery. Exquisite dishes were arranged on snow-white tablecloths in perfect order: thin slices of sturgeon, towers of red and black caviar, and steaming quail stuffed with herbs. The hum of polite, hushed conversations in a dozen languages was woven into the quiet, unobtrusive melody of a string quartet playing in the corner of the hall. An atmosphere of imperial grandeur, yet one different, unlike their own, was felt in everything.

  Intelligence Bureau Officer Liage carefully took a tall, narrow glass of a sparkling, bubbling drink, which the Russians called "champagne," from the tray of a passing waiter. Without attracting unnecessary attention, he approached his ambassador.

  "Sir Philliam, do not get carried away with the drinks," his voice was quiet, almost soundless. "I remind you that we are still in hostile territory. And this is part of their intelligence operation, not a friendly dinner."

  Philliam, thoughtfully examining a mound of black caviar, replied in the same whisper:

  "Relax, Liage. We have already found out everything they wanted to show us. What else do you hope to find here? Military secrets at the bottom of a glass?"

  "Answers are always hidden in the details, sir," Liage replied evasively, with a shadow of a smile. "In who talks to whom. Who doesn't eat what. And who gets drunk faster than the rest."

  But their whisper was interrupted. A tall, gray-haired Russian diplomat with a warm but slightly tired smile approached them.

  "Good evening, Mr. Ambassador," said Vorontsov, extending his hand. "Georgy Borisovich Vorontsov. We are already acquainted by reputation. I studied your impressive track record with great interest. I am glad to finally welcome you in person."

  Philliam shook his firm, dry hand, smiling just as restrainedly and politely.

  "Likewise, Mr. Minister. I must confess, your city exceeded all our expectations. And your Sapsans are a true miracle of engineering."

  "Thank you for such high praise," Vorontsov replied calmly. "We in Russia believe that human reason and diligence are capable of much."

  Philliam unexpectedly signaled to his assistant, who bowed and handed him an elegant, elongated box of polished ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  "Please accept this modest gift from our delegation. This is a personal present to emphasize our respect for your achievements."

  Vorontsov accepted the heavy box with slight surprise. He expected anything—a scroll, an artifact—but not this.

  "Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. And what is it, if it is not a secret?"

  "This is the latest achievement of our Empire," Philliam answered with unconcealed pride. "A computing instrument. It is capable of performing the most complex mathematical operations, such as division and multiplication. This device is a privilege of the aristocracy in our lands."

  Vorontsov opened the box. Inside, on a velvet cushion, lay a bulky mechanical calculator the size of a book, with rows of keys and a small window for numbers. It was skillfully made, inlaid with gold, but...

  The faces of the Russian diplomats standing behind froze for a moment in bewilderment, struggling to hold back smiles. Vorontsov, maintaining absolute composure, picked up the device with sincere—in appearance—interest.

  "Ooh, it is quite heavy. Looks like our Felix arithmometers... there were ones like this fifty or sixty years ago. My grandfather had one in his study," he said with a warm, almost nostalgic smile.

  Philliam's face froze for a moment. He didn't understand if it was a joke or not.

  "An amazing thing," Vorontsov continued with a warm, almost nostalgic smile, carefully putting the bulky Mirishial calculator back in the box. "Your efforts are admirable. Allow me, in turn, to give you a return gift from our government."

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  He beckoned his attaché, who immediately handed him—unlike the Mirishial gift—a completely flat and light case covered in black leather.

  "This device will also help you in your work with numbers. It is... somewhat more compact. And, I dare hope, more convenient," Vorontsov said, and a sly glint flashed in his eyes. "I hope it will be useful to you."

  Philliam accepted the case with curiosity. It was suspiciously light, as if nothing was inside. He opened it and froze. Inside lay a thin instrument, no thicker than a pack of wafers, made of black matte plastic with rows of buttons.

  "Is this... some kind of tablet?" he asked in bewilderment, seeing no gears, no levers, no mana-crystals.

  "This is an engineering microcalculator. Our modern model," Vorontsov explained calmly. "Press here."

  Vorontsov touched the "ON" key. The liquid crystal display instantly came to life, showing a clear zero.

  "This device performs any operations. Addition, subtraction, roots, logarithms... But the most interesting thing is right here," the minister pointed to a dark glass strip at the top of the device. "See?"

  "Hmm, a black crystal?" Philliam assumed.

  "Almost. A solar panel," Vorontsov said with pride in his voice. "This device doesn't need magic. It doesn't need winding keys. It doesn't even need our power cells. It feeds on pure light. As long as there is sun or even light from this chandelier—it will work forever."

  "Works... from light?" whispered Philliam, and his voice sounded hollow.

  Shock. He looked at this weightless piece of plastic, which was smarter, faster, and more perfect than their best gold-covered mechanics. He watched as the numbers instantly replaced one another on the screen as soon as Vorontsov touched the buttons. No mana. No effort. It feeds on light... a device that can fit in a vest pocket. This discovery hit him harder than the sight of the skyscrapers. It showed that the Russians had overtaken them not by a step, but by an entire era. What was a miracle for the Empire was office supplies for these people.

  Vorontsov took two tall crystal glasses with sparkling golden champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and handed one to Philliam. He took it mechanically, almost as if in a dream, without taking his eyes off the calculator lying in the case like a shard of an incomprehensible future. They exchanged glances, and Vorontsov, with a slight, almost imperceptible, but full of significance solemnity, said:

  "To long-term and mutually beneficial relations between our countries."

  Philliam slowly raised his glass. His hand trembled slightly. He looked into the calm, slightly tired, but absolutely confident eyes of the Russian minister and realized that the game was over without even starting. His mission—to "put the barbarians in their place"—had failed with a deafening crash. Now he had a new mission. Much more complex and humiliating. To negotiate.

  "To our... future cooperation, Mr. Minister," Philliam replied, and tilting the glass slightly, he drank its contents to the bottom, feeling the bitterness of realizing his own backwardness.

  He drained the glass, and the cold, prickly bubbles of champagne seemed bitter to him, like the taste of defeat.

  Later, in the hotel suite.

  Philliam sat in a deep armchair, holding a thin, almost weightless rectangle of black matte plastic that looked like a toy compared to their heavy, gold-inlaid arithmometers. Intelligence Officer Liage sat opposite him, his fingers discreetly manipulating a tiny mana-detector crystal sewn into his shirt cuff.

  "Did you find anything?" Philliam asked, unable to tear his mesmerizing, yet frightened gaze away from the smooth surface of the gift.

  "They are clean, sir. Absolutely," Liage replied quietly, a note of confusion in his voice. "I scanned both the device and its operating principle. I didn't detect a single magical spike, not even background radiation. There are no mana accumulators inside. From a magical standpoint, this device is dead. It... truly feeds simply on the light from the window."

  "So... this is all... science?" Philliam cast an irritated, almost pleading look at him. "It is humiliating to even discuss it! You are an officer of Imperial Intelligence! Do you truly believe that a piece of plastic can think faster than an Archmage without a drop of sorcery?"

  "I don't believe, sir. I analyze. And so far, all the facts suggest that the Russians aren't lying. This is pure mechanics and physics, taken to the point of absurdity."

  Frowning, Philliam pressed several buttons on the keypad at random. No mechanical clanking, no resistance of springs. Just a soft, soundless touch. The liquid crystal display blinked instantly, producing the result of multiplying two six-digit numbers. Instantly.

  He covered the dark strip of the solar panel at the top of the device with his palm. The numbers began to fade slowly. He removed his hand—and they became sharp again, as if drinking in the light of the chandelier.

  "This... 'pocket tablet,'" the Ambassador hissed with bitterness, turning the calculator over in his hands. "It surpasses our best calculating machines that occupy entire rooms. It works forever as long as there is light. And for them, this is a trifle. A souvenir. A trinket given out of politeness, like a handkerchief or a comb."

  "The diplomats from Mu warned us that Russia is a highly developed scientific civilization," Veruno piped up from the corner of the room. He was looking at the calculator with a mix of lust and horror. "But if they have technologies like this in the pocket of every clerk... I am terrified to even imagine what controls their warships."

  Philliam jerked his head up sharply. His face, usually arrogantly imperturbable, was pale. A mixture of terror at the abyss that had opened up before him and the cold rage of a politician saving his career splashed in his eyes.

  "Silence, both of you!" he hissed. "We cannot let such details reach our Parliament. Do you have any idea what will happen? Panic. The stock exchange crashing. Political division. We will be devoured for such an admission of our complete backwardness. The official report for Runepolis will contain only general information: Barbarians. Curious but narrowly specialized technologies inapplicable to our needs. Potentially useful as a 'human shield' in the war against Gra-Valkas. That is all! Is that clear?!"

  "Yes, sir," the officers replied in unison, almost with relief, realizing they were becoming accomplices to a state lie for the sake of the Empire's tranquility.

  Philliam leaned back heavily in his chair, setting the calculator aside on the table like a venomous snake.

  "Tomorrow, we will officially invite them to the Conference of the Eleven Superpowers. This is our last chance. To gather their leaders and ours in one hall. To look them in the eye. To figure out how dangerous they truly are at the negotiating table. And if we can... if we can control them in any way, or at least direct their anger at our enemies."

  A heavy, oppressive silence hung in the room. The small black calculator on the table continued to work silently, absorbing the lamp's light and displaying frozen numbers—a dispassionate sentence passed upon their era by a civilization that had no need for gods.

  One day later. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Russian Federation.

  The Foreign Ministry conference room was all business. There was no gold leaf or fancy molding on the walls—just polished dark wood, heavy chairs, and a massive round table meant to show that everyone sitting there was equal. The representatives of the Holy Mirishial Empire sat on one side. Opposite them was the Russian team, led by Minister Georgy Vorontsov.

  Ambassador Philliam stood up. He looked pulled together, but you could tell he was tense—the hand holding his parchment paper was shaking just a little bit. His voice, though, was steady.

  So, on behalf of my government and the Central World powers, I want to say we are very interested in having you at the Conference of Eleven Superpowers, he began.

  We have a little less than a year to get ready. We believe your being there is crucial. At this conference, to recognize your recent wins, your nation could be officially named the... responsible caretaker of the eastern regions. He paused on those last words, saying them like he was doing them a big favor.

  Sly fox, Vorontsov chuckled to himself. He is trying to slot us into their pecking order. Making us the governor of our own backyard so we acknowledge they are the ones in charge. Clever.

  The Russians just listened, their faces stone cold. Philliam, not seeing the reaction he expected—joy, or at least interest—started feeling awkward. He gulped and finished up quickly.

  We sincerely hope Russia accepts this invitation.

  Dead silence filled the room, broken only by the quiet rustle of paper. Finally, Andrei Petrov, the Deputy Head of Special Communications, raised his hand. He was calm, but you could tell this mattered.

  Permission to ask a clarifying question, Mr. Ambassador? he asked, leaning forward slightly. His voice was smooth, almost like a professor's.

  Of course, Mr. Petrov, Philliam nodded, trying not to show his nerves. He felt like he was under interrogation, where one wrong answer could be fatal.

  In the guest list you kindly gave us, the so-called Leifor Empire is still listed. However, according to our intel, that country stopped existing five months ago. Its territory was completely and, it seems, permanently annexed by the Gra-Valkas Empire. Do we understand correctly that Leifor's seat at the Conference of Eleven will now rightfully be taken by Gra-Valkas?

  Philliam felt a cold shiver run down his spine. The question was not just direct. It was educated. The Russians were not just asking; they were showing off how much they knew. They were proving they knew as much about the situation in the west as Mirishial did—maybe even more. He flinched, barely visible, but pulled himself together instantly.

  That is... possible, he answered, as vaguely as he could. As you know, after Leifor recklessly declared war on Gra-Valkas, they suffered a crushing defeat. Our diplomats are currently in former Leifor territory trying their best to make contact with... the new authorities to give them an invite. But right now, we do not know for sure if their delegation will show up.

  Petrov nodded slowly. His face did not change, but a cold glint flashed in his eyes—the look of an analyst whose theory just got confirmed.

  Thank you for the detailed answer, Mr. Ambassador.

  He sat down, but his question hung heavy in the air.

  He is lying, Vorontsov noted coldly to himself, watching Philliam. They have zero contact with them. They do not know who they are, where they came from, or what they want. Their intelligence is blind. They have lost control of the situation.

  Well, in that case... We gratefully accept your invitation, Mr. Ambassador, Vorontsov said, his voice suddenly sounding warm and welcoming. The Russian Federation will be happy to take part in the Conference of Eleven Superpowers. We believe direct talk between the world's leading powers is the only way to build stability and mutual respect.

  ...and it is also the perfect chance to get all your leaders in one room, figure out your real strength, understand your fears, and find your weak points. You are handing us the keys to your world yourself, he finished the thought in his head.

  Philliam visibly relaxed. The threat of the mission's failure had passed.

  "We are sincerely glad to hear that, Mr. Minister!" he replied with obvious relief. "Your contribution will be invaluable."

  Vorontsov nodded politely, then beckoned an assistant. The aide handed him a small, elegant case made of polished Karelian wood.

  "As a token of our appreciation, please accept another modest gift," Vorontsov said. "This is a wristwatch, handcrafted by our artisans. Mechanical. Inside are hundreds of tiny gears and springs. Zero magic."

  He handed the case to Philliam.

  The Ambassador accepted the gift with gratitude and opened it. On a velvet cushion lay a magnificent gold-cased watch; through the sapphire crystal, the intricate mechanism was visible. It was a work of art. But for Philliam, who still remembered that weightless black slab powered by light sitting back in his hotel room, this was also a subtle, almost cruel hint. We can create such perfection even using old "primitive" mechanics. Just imagine what our true science, which created that calculator, is capable of.

  "Thank you, Mr. Minister. This is... an honor for us," he said. But his smile, for the first time all day, was strained and full of bitterness. He had lost this round without even realizing what game was being played.

  At the same time. The former Kingdom of Leifor, now the occupied province "Sector-7" of the Gra-Valkas Empire.

  "Some welcome," mumbled one of the junior Mirishial diplomats, staring nervously out the porthole of his luxurious, but now seemingly fragile, Guernic-model magic aircraft. In the sky, at arm's length, they were escorted by a quartet of predatory fighters painted the color of a stormy sky. Their piston engines roared with an animalistic, brazen fury, drowning out the quiet, aristocratic hum of Mirishial magic, while the cockpit glass reflected the indifferent faces of pilots hidden behind masks and goggles. Red circles with black crosses on their wings, like the eyes of a predator, watched them unblinkingly.

  The capital of Leifor, Leiforia, had changed beyond recognition. Not a trace remained of the elegant architecture for which it was famous. Where palaces once stood, ugly, gray concrete boxes now towered in a style the Gra-Valkans apparently considered "functional militarism." The city smelled of burning, cheap fuel, and fear. Patrols of soldiers in olive drab uniforms, rifles at the ready, moved through the streets, marching with frightening, inhuman synchronicity.

  "I don't like this either," said the head of the delegation, Ambassador Siwalf, quietly, looking at the men in Leifor Guard uniforms hanged from lampposts. "Stay sharp. Do not provoke them. Not a single word without my permission. We smile and we bow."

  "Yes, sir," his subordinates replied in unison.

  At the port, by the ramp of their Guernic, the delegation was met not by an honor guard, but by a single squat, ugly, iron-riveted armored car. An officer in a simple brown uniform and a high peaked cap stepped out of it.

  "Are you from Mirishial?" he almost spat without a greeting, his gaze sliding over their rich clothes with open contempt.

  "Yes, we are the official delegation of His Holy Majesty…"

  "Follow me," he cut him off and, without waiting for an answer, turned and got back into the vehicle.

  The ride was a claustrophobic nightmare. Inside the armored car, it smelled of iron and gun oil. There were no windows, only narrow slits through which ruins rushed by. After thirty minutes of shaking, they arrived at the former royal palace, over which the huge red-and-black flag of Gra-Valkas now flew. They were led through echoing corridors stripped of all decoration into a large hall turned into an operational headquarters. Behind a huge table covered with maps sat a man, casually resting his dirty boots on the polished surface.

  "Your Excellency! The delegation from the Holy Mirishial Empire has arrived!" the escort reported crisply, in military fashion.

  A lazy, slightly raspy voice came from the office:

  "Let them in. You are dismissed, Lieutenant."

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Pleased to meet you. I am Siwalf, head of the diplomatic mission of the Holy Mirishial Empire," the head of the delegation said with a deep bow.

  "Dallas Claymond. I represent the interests of my Emperor here. Have a seat," the host of the office waved his hand carelessly.

  He slowly took a cigar from an expensive wooden humidor and asked:

  "Do you mind?"

  When Siwalf politely answered in the negative, Dallas lit the cigar with a petrol lighter with a loud click and leaned back in his chair, blowing a cloud of acrid smoke into the delegates' faces.

  "We have come to give you an official invitation to the Conference of Eleven Superpowers," Siwalf said, placing a folder on the table. "After the Superpower Leifor… ceased to exist, we decided to invite your country."

  In response, Dallas laughed loudly and heartily. The delegates froze, not understanding what caused his laughter.

  "Oh, forgive my lack of restraint," Dallas said, wiping away a tear. "Leifor? A superpower? That bunch of farmers with rusty magic muskets? You must be joking! Your criteria for selecting 'powerful' countries are simply terrible."

  Siwalf, pale with rage, tried his best to maintain his composure.

  "You should not be so overconfident, Mr. Dallas. If you think my Empire or the Republic of Mu are on the same level as Leifor, you are deeply mistaken. If we combine our efforts, we will easily defeat you."

  "Are you threatening me?" Dallas asked with a lazy, predatory smirk. He took a slow drag on his cigar and blew smoke right into Siwalf's face. "Remember, Mr. 'Diplomat.' Our fleet can destroy your praised Runepolis before you even manage to declare mobilization. Now get out. I have much to do. I will inform you of my decision regarding your ridiculous 'conference' later."

  "No. This is a warning," Siwalf said coldly, making a last desperate attempt to maintain dignity. "The government of my Empire deemed your country worthy of being represented at the Conference."

  "I will convey your kind invitation to His Imperial Majesty. Is that all, Mr. Siwalf?"

  "Yes."

  "Then I dare not detain you any longer. My lieutenant will see you out."

  The return trip to the port became a real torture for the Mirishial delegation, calculated and humiliating. It wasn't just a ride. It was a show of force. The streets, relatively empty in the morning, were now packed with troops. Endless columns of infantry in full combat gear marched past their armored car, keeping perfect step. Their loud, guttural marching songs echoed through the ruined city. Feverish loading operations were underway at the port: thousands of soldiers, dozens of growling tanks and armored vehicles were driving into the holds of giant transport ships. And in the sky, with a deafening roar, squadrons of attack aircraft and bombers swept by, heading east.

  "They are preparing for a new war," Siwalf realized with horror, looking through the narrow slit. "And they aren't even trying to hide it. They want us to see this."

  He and his delegation were not just guests. They were spectators at a parade of alien, terrifying power. And that was the worst humiliation of all.

  Two weeks later. The Holy Mirishial Empire. Capital Runepolis. The Main Analytical Intelligence Bureau.

  In the spacious, dark-wood-paneled office of Arneus, the Head of the Bureau, a tense, almost suffocating silence reigned. The air was heavy, saturated with the smell of old parchment, ozone from active magical artifacts, and unspoken anxiety. Zamat and Liage—his two best agents, freshly returned from opposite ends of the world—stood before his massive desk.

  "Continue, Zamat," Arneus ordered. His voice was calm, but the way he slowly rotated a heavy crystal scrying orb in his fingers betrayed enormous internal tension.

  "As I said, sir, an atmosphere of total military control reigns in Leifor. Gra-Valkas is clearly preparing something. Their troops are massing at ports in unprecedented numbers. Their fighters... sir, I saw them up close. They are crude, rattling machines, but they fly at speeds our best 'ships of the sky' cannot match. We were unable to obtain samples of their weaponry, but their ground equipment—tanks—impresses with its sheer mass and brutality. We detected no magical energy. It is pure, soulless mechanics. Conclusion: Gra-Valkas is a war machine preparing for a major conflict," Zamat reported crisply, in military fashion.

  Arneus nodded silently. A threat. Powerful, brazen, but... understandable. It was simply another empire, with different technology. One could fight against that. This was a war he understood. He shifted his cold, piercing gaze to Liage.

  "Your report."

  "Sir, during my visit to the Russian Federation, I discovered something... different," Liage began. He carefully spread a large, perfectly printed map onto the polished surface of the desk. "This map was 'kindly provided' to us by Russian diplomats."

  Arneus raised an eyebrow and leaned closer. The map depicted the continents with incredible, almost divine detail. But the most astonishing thing—red, pulsing dots marked secret airbases, naval shipyards, and industrial zones... of the Gra-Valkas Empire. The very ones his own intelligence service, the best in the world, had failed to find for months.

  "Where... did they... get... this... map?" Arneus asked slowly, almost in a whisper, pronouncing each word distinctly.

  Liage swallowed.

  "They claim to use... 'satellites.' Devices they launch into the planet's orbit. These allow them to observe the entire surface of the world in real-time. With incredible precision."

  Arneus slowly leaned back in his chair. His face, always inscrutable, flickered for a moment, turning into a mask of horror and awe. He looked at the map, at the red dots, and understood: the Russians don't just know where their enemies are. They see them. Right now. Every movement, every ship, every plane.

  "They don't just see the world," he realized with icy terror. "They see it like gods."

  And in that moment, he realized: the true, existential threat comes not from the brazen invaders from the west, who simply want to fight.

  The real threat—quiet, polite, all-seeing—sits in the east. And it already knows everything about them.

  Arneus looked at Liage.

  "Tell me. Tell me everything. From the very beginning. And don't leave out a single detail."

  Liage's words hung in the deafening silence of the office. Arneus, usually as unshakable as a rock, momentarily lost his composure. He slowly leaned back in his massive chair, his gaze fixed on the map, but he wasn't seeing it—he was seeing the ghost of his own world, which had just collapsed.

  "Satellites..." he murmured, and there was something akin to reverent horror in his voice. "This is... this is from the ancient legends. About the technologies of the Ravernal Empire. They had a system called 'Mistar'—a network of magical devices in the heavens that allowed them to monitor the entire world. We always considered it a myth, an exaggeration... And now it turns out these Russians have something similar? Only created not by magic, but by science?"

  Zamat and Liage remained silent, giving their superior time to digest this monstrous volume of information. They watched a storm of emotions play out on their chief's face—from shock to a slowly dawning, cold realization.

  Arneus slowly rose and walked to the window, beyond which the majestic Runepolis shone with lights. His face became stern again, like that of a judge.

  "If the Russians can observe the entire world, it means... it means our entire defense doctrine, which we have been building for thousands of years, has turned to dust," he said quietly, almost soundlessly.

  "All our secret bases. All our hidden fleet routes. All our research centers where we try to unravel the secrets of Ravernal... all of it is in the palm of their hand. Do you understand what this means, Liage?"

  "Yes, sir. We are completely vulnerable."

  "Worse! We are not just vulnerable. We are an open book to them. They know more about us than we do ourselves. They can predict our every step. If this information falls into the wrong hands... if they share it with Gra-Valkas, for example... it will be the end."

  He paused for a moment, then turned sharply. There was no fear in his eyes anymore. Only the cold, predatory glint of a grandmaster who had seen a new, deadly dangerous, but incredibly interesting piece on the board.

  "Forget about Gra-Valkas," he rapped out. "They are just a strong but predictable barbarian. Noisy, aggressive, but understandable. Our main task now is Russia. We must understand everything. Who they are. What their true goals are. And, most importantly—what are the limits of their power. You two will lead new analytical groups. I need all the information. Every grain. Because the world has changed. And he who first understands the rules of this new game will be the one who survives. The rest will become mere pawns."

  "Yes, sir. But this map..." Liage pointed to the table, "it gives us an incredible strategic advantage. Now we know where the lair of Gra-Valkas is."

  Arneus looked again at the map, on which the continent of Grallux was clearly marked. Borders, cities, shipyards, industrial facilities.

  "Hm, the Russians are playing a subtle diplomatic game," he murmured. "They share this information with us to show their value as an ally... and simultaneously demonstrate their omniscience as a potential enemy. They are keeping us on a short leash. For now."

  He straightened up, and his gaze became hard as steel.

  "Liage, Zamath. Your next task. Forget standard protocols. Now we are playing in a new way. We must understand what kind of relationship the Russians want to build with us. But not by their words, by their actions. Consider this a top-level priority."

  "Yes, sir!" both officers answered in unison.

  Arneus was left alone in the office. He looked at the map again. Two new, alien empires that had emerged from nowhere. One—noisy and aggressive. The other—quiet and polite.

  "Two predators found in the same cage as us," he thought.

  The world had changed. And for the Holy Mirishial Empire to survive, it too had to change. To stop being just the "strongest."

  And become the cunningest. The most treacherous. The most ruthless.