Russian Federation. Moscow. Embassy of the Kingdom of Topa.

  "Wh-what…?"

  The elderly ambassador of the Kingdom of Topa let the parchment scroll slip from his trembling hands. The sheet, thick and heavy, glided down onto the polished, almost mirror-like surface of the dark oak desk like a fallen autumn leaf bearing news of winter's inevitable death.

  "No… it can't be… Gods… almighty…"

  He sank weakly into his heavy, expensive leather armchair. The voice of King Rhodos, which he had heard through the manacomm crystal before the official dispatch was sent, still echoed in his ears—a voice stripped not just of hope, but of the very will to live. The message was short, dry as the crack of bones, and all the more terrifying for it. The World Gate had fallen. The thousand-year-old bastion, built, according to legend, by the "messengers of the high god" themselves, had been breached in a matter of hours. The fortress-city of Tormeus, the last stronghold and shield of the entire kingdom, was nearly surrounded. Legions of demons—orcs, goblins, and unknown, even more horrific creatures—were spreading across the northern lands like a living, black tsunami, preparing for the final assault. The garrison was exhausted, bled dry, on the brink of total annihilation. They had no more than a few days left. The King was pleading for help. Pleading to everyone. Even to those who, for centuries, had seen them as nothing more than convenient guardians, people they could wall themselves off from and forget ever existed.

  An hour ago, the reply from the Parpaldia Empire had arrived. It was a refusal, the reason cited being that Topa had stopped sending slaves to the Empire. "Those Parpaldian pigs turned us down, because of that," the ambassador thought with a bitterness that made his jaw ache. "The great empire! Defenders of civilization! In reality, nothing but arrogant cowards who abandon their vassals at the first hint of a real, existential threat!" His lips twisted into a contemptuous sneer. "Well… that leaves only one last, most insane, most impossible hope. The Russians…"

  The ambassador of the Kingdom of Topa, Baron von Eberhard, an aristocrat of the old school, ran a trembling hand over his perfectly styled gray temples, trying to gather his thoughts. "If we lose Topa," a thought hammered in his temples, "it will be the end. Not just for our people, our kingdom. It will be the end of the entire Philades continent. And those self-satisfied, blind idiots in their golden Esthirant don't even realize it. But what can I do here, in this cold, foreign capital, so far from home?"

  He looked at the black, gleaming device on his desk that resembled polished obsidian—a landline telephone, one of the first curious gifts from the Russians after the embassy opened. This device, devoid of magic, powered by some unknown "electric" force, now seemed to him the last artifact capable of changing the course of history. Gathering the last remnants of his will, the ambassador picked up the heavy, cold receiver and, checking the number in his notebook, began to dial.

  A calm, perfectly composed female voice answered on the other end. "Office of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, good afternoon."

  "This is Baron von Eberhard, Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the Kingdom of Topa. I need to speak with Deputy Minister Morozov urgently—I repeat, IMMEDIATELY and URGENTLY," he said, desperately trying to lend his voice a tone of firmness and authority, but a traitorous tremor still broke through. "This is a matter of a national catastrophe. And of a threat that will, in the very near future, affect the interests and security of the Russian Federation itself."

  He deliberately added the last sentence, knowing it was the only thing that could break through the wall of bureaucracy.

  "Understood, sir. Connecting you to the Deputy Minister's office. Please hold," the secretary interrupted politely, but coldly.

  The ambassador hung up the receiver with a sigh of relief. The minutes of waiting stretched like hours of torture. He stood up and began to pace nervously around his lavish, yet now prison-like, office. His gaze fell upon the portrait of King Rhodos hanging on the wall. "I pray, High God…" his lips whispered silently. "If you truly sent these people to our world, as you once sent your first messengers… give us a sign. Do not forsake us. Save us from this ancient darkness that has crawled out of the abyss itself…"

  The sharp, piercing, almost insulting ring of the telephone made him jump. Stumbling, he rushed to the desk and snatched the receiver. A short, business-like conversation with the Deputy Minister's assistant. An invitation to the Ministry's main building on Smolenskaya-Sennaya Square. Immediately. A car was already on its way.

  In his tired, despair-filled eyes, a faint, almost impossible, yet desperately bright flicker of hope ignited.

  Russian Federation. Moscow. Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

  The high-rise on Smolenskaya Square, one of Stalin's seven "Seven Sisters" skyscrapers, seemed to pierce the low, gray, perpetually grim Moscow sky. Here, in the impersonal, almost sterile conference room No. 74-B, bathed in the cold, deathly light of long fluorescent lamps, sat the ambassador of the Kingdom of Topa. He was alone. A heavy, oppressive silence weighed down on him, broken only by the steady, merciless ticking of the wall clock. Each click seemed to drive another nail into the coffin of his distant, bleeding homeland. He hadn't slept in days, his diplomatic uniform felt as heavy as a funeral shroud, and every moment of waiting stretched into an agonizing, torturous eternity.

  Before him on the perfectly polished table, like a death sentence, lay a copy of the mana-gram received from King Rhodos. Every word was steeped in blood and despair: demonic legions had closed the ring around Tormeus; the defenders were dying by the hundreds, their bodies used as building material for siege towers; the Demon Lord was preparing a final, crushing assault; time was almost up.

  A short, business-like knock on the door pulled him from his somber thoughts. The ambassador instinctively jumped to his feet, hastily adjusting his heavy, silver-embroidered ceremonial robe. He was trying to look dignified, like the representative of an ancient kingdom, but he felt like a beggar pleading for scraps.

  A tall, lean man in a stark, dark gray suit that fit him so perfectly it could have been a second skin entered the office. His face was calm, almost bored, and only the deep shadows under his eyes betrayed an extreme level of fatigue—the result of an endless series of meetings and crises that had befallen Russia in this new, insane world. This was Morozov, the Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs in charge of the "new territories." The man on whose word the fate of an entire continent now depended.

  "Ambassador, welcome," the official gave a restrained nod, his gaze sweeping over Eberhard's face, instantly assessing his condition, before settling on the papers on the table. He didn't offer a hand for a greeting and got straight to the point. "We have very little time. Report."

  The ambassador swallowed, trying to quell the treacherous tremor in his voice. He squared his shoulders, summoning all his years of diplomatic composure.

  "…as I've already informed your secretary, our knights are holding the line, but their strength is failing. Tormeus is our last bulwark, a shield that for centuries has protected not only us, but the entire civilized world from the horrors lurking in Grameus. If it falls, hordes of demons will flood the defenseless cities of the entire Philades continent. We can handle goblins and orcs; they're just wild beasts. But… the Demon Lord…" he faltered, remembering eyewitness descriptions that chilled him to the bone, "it's not just a monster. It is the very embodiment of an ancient, intelligent horror. We… we are begging you. On behalf of my king and my entire people. Send us even a small contingent of your renowned Ground Forces to aid us."

  Morozov listened in silence, his fingers, like a metronome, tapping a steady, barely audible rhythm on the table. He didn't rush his answer, as if weighing the lives of thousands of people against lines in reports and potential political fallout on an invisible bureaucratic scale.

  "A 'Demon Lord,' you say?" he finally spoke, and his gaze became as sharp as a surgeon's scalpel, studying the ambassador's every reaction. "Is it intelligent? Does it negotiate? Does it have… political demands?"

  The ambassador froze for a moment, stunned by this cold, almost inhumanly bureaucratic question.

  "WHAT?!" Outrage mixed with desperation broke through, sweeping away the last vestiges of diplomatic etiquette. "It devours humans, elves, dwarves! It burns cities and defiles the very land! It wants to destroy our entire world! What in the hells are you talking about, 'intelligence' and 'politics'?! It is absolute evil!"

  For a fleeting moment, a shadow of almost human sympathy flickered in Morozov's eyes, but it was extinguished just as quickly, replaced by professional reserve.

  "I understand, Ambassador. Your emotional reaction. But you must understand us as well," his voice hardened, as if he were reading a paragraph from a manual. "According to the legislation of the Russian Federation, the unilateral deployment of troops for combat operations on the territory of another sovereign state without a direct and explicit threat to our national interests or without the sanction of… let's say, our highest Security Council, is impossible. Especially when it comes to the elimination of… an intelligent being. It would set an extremely dangerous international precedent."

  "But it's… it's not human! It's a demon!"

  "That," Morozov cut him off dryly, "is yet to be determined by our lawyers, expert biologists, and theologians. However," he paused almost imperceptibly, signaling that he was getting to the point, "given the extreme nature of your situation and the threat that further destabilization in your region potentially poses to our own economic and military interests, I will make every effort to expedite the inter-agency approval process. With the Ministry of Defense. With the Security Council. We will give you an official response in the very near future."

  The ambassador slowly, almost with a sense of doom, nodded. He understood completely. "Expedite the approval process." "In the very near future." In the world of bureaucracy, those words could mean anything from a few hours to a few eternities. By the time their lawyers finished arguing about the legal status of a demon, his homeland could have burned to the ground.

  Without another word, he bowed low with dignity and left the office, feeling the cold, indifferent gaze of the Russian official on his back. The hope that had burned so brightly just half an hour ago began to fade again, giving way to an icy, bottomless despair.

  Three days passed. Three endless, torturous days that, for Ambassador von Eberhard, blurred into one continuous, gray nightmare. A dead silence reigned in the Embassy of the Kingdom of Topa, broken only by the rare rustle of papers and the muffled, fearful whispers of his few assistants. He barely slept, surviving on strong, bitter Russian coffee and his own frayed nerves. He paced his lavish office, now transformed into a cage, like a tiger hearing the distant cries of its dying cubs but unable to break through the bars. Every minute of waiting was an exquisite form of torture.

  "What if they refuse?" a thought pounded in his temples, echoing with a dull ache. "Or worse, what if they agree, but their sluggish bureaucratic machine grinds away at these papers, approvals, and protocols for so long that by the time they arrive, nothing is left of Topa but ash and a scorched, desecrated land?"

  The despair was almost physically palpable, squeezing his chest in an icy grip, making it hard to breathe. He had nearly lost all hope, mentally composing a final letter to his king. But at the end of the third day, late in the evening, as the weary, indifferent city outside sank into a twilight illuminated only by cold lights, a black executive-class "Aurus" sedan from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs arrived at the embassy without any warning.

  The news contained within the sealed envelope bearing the coat of arms of the Russian Federation was short, dry, and absolutely insane in its phrasing. The Russian government, following emergency inter-agency consultations and a personal decree from the President, approved at a closed session of the Security Council, had made a decision. A Special Expeditionary Corps of the Ground Forces would be dispatched to the Kingdom of Topa immediately.

  The official pretext under which this operation would be listed in all public documents was: "the fulfillment of an international humanitarian mission to eliminate a source of aggressive and dangerous species of wild fauna posing a threat to the ecological and humanitarian stability of the region."

  The ambassador read the dry, carefully worded lines of the official document several times. "Dangerous wild fauna"… They had called the Demon Lord Nosgorath, heir to the terror of an ancient empire, a being whose name had for centuries made children cry in their sleep, and his legions of intelligent, cruel creatures… wild animals. Pests, subject to sanitary extermination.

  He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at this cold, cynical, almost mocking, yet so blessedly pragmatic approach. He sank into his chair, and a wave of such all-consuming relief washed over him that for a moment, his vision went dark.

  They were coming. The troops were already on their way.

  Kingdom of Topa. Occupied Tormeus.

  The eastern part of the once-magnificent fortress-city of Tormeus had devolved into hell. In a literal, almost tangible sense of the word. The demons had transformed the district into their personal sewer, where every street breathed death, decay, and unspeakable suffering. Clusters of mutilated bodies of civilians, including women and children, hung from the beams of ruined houses like grotesque, blasphemous decorations. They had marked the borders of their new domain with the heads of fallen defenders, impaled on sharp spikes. The air was heavy and thick with the nauseating stench of rotting flesh, blood, and excrement. And through this hell, the heart-wrenching screams of pain, death rattles, and the bestial, triumphant roars of the conquerors constantly tore through the air.

  In the surviving but desecrated town hall, where the council of elders once convened, a sort of "stockpile" of living flesh had now been established. A few dozen surviving captives—women, old men, and children—sat huddled in the darkest corner, shivering from cold and terror. Goblins with sadistic grins and vile, gurgling laughter periodically chose their victims from among them. Some, the oldest and thinnest, were dragged off to the kitchens. Others, the young and beautiful, awaited an even more terrible fate—to become playthings for the orcs.

  "Now this one's a tasty-looking morsel. Think she's enough for the two of us?" one of the goblins hissed, licking its rotten teeth and devouring a young half-elven woman with a lustful gaze.

  The second goblin, sneering, approached her and, with a deliberate flourish of its crooked knife made from human bone, slashed through the remnants of her dress. After an appraising look at her trembling body, it yanked the girl's hair, forcing a cry of pain from her.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  "This one goes to the master. He'll break her fast. Whatever's left over, we get," it snarled, pleased with its find.

  With vile chuckles, they roughly bound her and, slinging her over a wooden pole like a butchered animal, carried her out of the town hall.

  At that same moment, in another corner of the hall, three goblins surrounded a young human girl. She sat pressed against the wall, her face buried in her knees, her shoulders trembling slightly.

  "Hee-hee, look at this rosy one!" one of them squeaked, placing its grimy, clawed hand on her knee. "Mmm, she'll make a tasty stew…"

  It never finished the sentence. A thin, needle-like yet deadly blade slid silently from the girl's sleeve and, with incredible speed, plunged directly into its throat. The goblin gurgled, its eyes widening in surprise. The girl, leaping to her feet with the fury of a wounded she-wolf, delivered several more quick, practiced strikes. Blood sprayed onto her face, but she didn't seem to notice.

  The other goblins froze for a moment, stunned. They were used to fear and submission from their victims, not such ferocious resistance. But shock quickly gave way to rage. About twenty of the creatures in the hall charged at her with a roar.

  One, brandishing a rusty axe, lunged forward. The girl, moving with an incredible, almost dance-like grace, dodged the blow, and her stiletto, flashing in the dim light, drove straight into the attacker's eye. The goblin shrieked and fell, but without losing a second, she had already turned to the next, slitting its carotid artery with a single, precise slash.

  The goblins, unnerved, retreated for a moment. But their primal fury quickly took over. One of them ran out of the town hall, obviously to get reinforcements. The girl, drenched in sweat and blood—both her own and her enemies'—continued to fight. A sudden blow from a goblin club struck her shoulder. A sharp, piercing pain shot through her body, but, screaming in fury, she only redoubled her assault on the enemies.

  But the odds were stacked against her. Her breathing grew ragged, her vision blurry. And then, a new foe emerged from the shadows. A massive, almost ten-foot-tall high orc, encased from head to toe in black plate armor. Its heavy, spiked mace whistled through the air. The girl couldn't dodge in time. The blow struck her side, and with the crack of breaking ribs, she was thrown across the room. She hit the wall with a dull thud and slumped to the floor.

  Darkness began to swallow her. But through that darkness broke a new, even more terrifying horror. Several goblins, snarling in anticipation of revenge, dragged her, bloodied and nearly unconscious, to the center of the hall. Their laughter and guttural cries merged into a monstrous cacophony. But she would not let them savor her fear. Blood blinded her, but gathering the last, impossible remnants of her will, she ignored the hellish pain and saw her stiletto, lying beneath the body of one of the goblins she had killed. Screaming to drown out the pain, she spat out a mouthful of blood, lunged forward, grabbed the weapon, and with a single, sharp, calculated motion, plunged it into the neck of the nearest assailant. And then, without the slightest hesitation, she turned the blade on herself.

  One sharp, forceful movement—and warm, liberating blood gushed from her throat. A strange, almost blissful sense of relief washed over her. The pain was gone. And with it came a saving, eternal cold.

  As her body went limp, a heavy silence fell upon the hall. Enraged that their prey had escaped them, the orc and goblins flew into a frenzy and unleashed their fury on the remaining, defenseless captives. Bestial roars mixed with the cries of children and the moans of women.

  And in that infernal cacophony, almost indiscernible, came the quiet, desperate whisper of one of the old men:

  "Great gods… if you exist… I beg you… save us…"

  At the same time. A classified briefing at a Spetsnaz base near Moscow.

  In the lecture hall, windowless and flooded with the cold, unforgiving light of fluorescent lamps, there was absolute silence. The air was thick with tension. These were not just soldiers gathered here. These were the best of the best: officers from the Special Operations Forces (SSO), scouts from the GRU (Main Intelligence Directorate), sappers, and signalmen—the elite of the Russian army. All of them had been pulled from leave, from training exercises, from other assignments, and a silent question was written in their eyes.

  "Comrade officers," a short but powerfully built man with the rank of major stood before them, in front of a large tactical screen. His face was calm, almost impenetrable, but when he spoke, his voice was like steel. "I am Major Alexey Neverov, appointed commander of the joint special-purpose detachment for emergency deployment to the Kingdom of Topa. I will now bring you up to speed."

  He clicked a remote, and a satellite map of an unfamiliar, snow-covered region appeared on the screen behind him.

  "Initially, the mission was described as eliminating dangerous wildlife. We thought they were sending us to hunt some overgrown wild boars," a hint of grim irony laced the major's voice, and a restrained chuckle rippled through the hall. "But as it turns out, this 'wildlife' is far from simple."

  He clicked the remote again. A blurry, but all the more terrifying image, clearly taken from a great distance, appeared on the screen. A tall figure, almost thirteen feet high, clad in spiked obsidian armor, was seated on a gigantic crimson dragon.

  "This… 'Demon Lord,' as the locals call him, is some kind of magical monster. According to our intelligence and local legends, he hurls spells that can easily incinerate entire squadrons of knights from over half a mile away. But he's not alone."

  The hall filled with the quiet rustle of paper as the officers began to flip through the folders marked "Top Secret" that had been distributed before the briefing. Inside were detailed intelligence reports, translations of ancient texts, refugee testimonies, and blurry satellite photographs.

  "These creatures," the major continued, "are intelligent. They are systematically hunting the local population—humans, elves, dwarves—and using them as a food source. The Demon Lord himself, according to local chronicles, was sealed away five thousand years ago. He does not age. And, from all appearances, he is a bio-weapon, artificially created by the ancient, vanished magical civilization of Ravernal."

  With those words, he switched the slide again. A clear, close-up photograph appeared on the screen. A massive, almost thirteen-foot-tall creature in crude, rusted armor.

  "Meet the troll, comrades. Strong as a tank, almost immune to 5.45mm small arms fire. But dumb as a post. Their job is to breach defenses. A battering ram."

  Next slide. Tall creatures, nearly ten feet high, in perfectly fitted, rune-etched plate armor, wielding enormous serrated greatswords.

  "Now, this is more serious. High dark orcs. The locals thought them extinct. As you can see, they were mistaken. They are intelligent. Disciplined. Incredibly strong. They operate like a well-trained special forces unit: coordinated, tactically sound. They use formations, flanking maneuvers, and covering fire from crossbowmen. These aren't just monsters. This is a professional army."

  A hushed whisper broke the silence. "They look like the orcs from Lord of the Rings."

  Several officers in the hall let out a controlled chuckle, breaking the tension. Major Neverov didn't even turn his head, but the corners of his lips twitched almost imperceptibly.

  "Glad you appreciate the reference, Captain," he said, his tone unchanged. "Just keep in mind, these guys don't shoot prop arrows. Next slide."

  An image of a pig-like creature with small, vicious eyes and huge tusks appeared on the screen.

  "Wild orcs. Anthropomorphic boars. Cannon fodder. Their intelligence is almost zero, but they are physically very strong and resilient. Extremely aggressive. They charge anything that moves. Alone, they are not a threat to a trained soldier, but in a crowd, they can simply overwhelm with sheer numbers."

  Next slide. Small, frail-looking creatures with huge ears and crooked knives in their hands.

  "Goblins. Physically weaker than a human, but they compensate with savage aggression and numbers. They reproduce at an incredible rate. They attack in massive swarms, like locusts. Their tactic is to bury the enemy under a pile of bodies. They are dirty, treacherous, and love to stab you in the back. Do not underestimate them."

  The major paused, and his face grew even more serious.

  "And this, comrades, is no longer a joke."

  Two new images appeared on the screen, clearly drawings from ancient chronicles, photographed by intelligence. Two gigantic creatures covered in thick fur—one bright red, the other a deep blue.

  "The 'Red' and 'Blue' Ogres. The Demon Lord's bodyguards. Their physical strength is estimated to be dozens of times greater than a human's. They possess virtually infinite stamina, provided by constant, weak magical regeneration. This same regeneration instantly heals any non-critical wounds. Their hide is as tough as composite armor—neither sword nor arrow can pierce it. Their movement speed is comparable to a vehicle over rough terrain. They feel no pain and no fear. Their sole purpose is destruction. And, from all accounts, they feed on their victims right on the battlefield, allowing them to fight almost indefinitely. A projectile from a local ballista could theoretically wound them, but they are too fast. Heavy machine guns should be effective, but direct infantry engagement with these creatures is to be avoided at all costs."

  The final images on the screen were no longer photos, but actual satellite videos. Burning villages. The ruined walls of the World Gate. And a vast, teeming mass besieging the fortress-city of Tormeus.

  "The knights of the Kingdom of Topa," the major finally turned off the projector and faced the hall, "are holding the demons at Tormeus, heroically but hopelessly. They won't last long. Our primary objective: the elimination of the Demon Lord, and the Red and Blue Ogres. They are the command structure. According to our analysts, without their will, this entire horde will devolve into an unmanageable mob."

  "So that's the situation," Neverov concluded. "Prepare yourselves, comrades. We are about to face something that goes beyond all our field manuals and concepts of warfare. But we are Russian soldiers. Which means the mission will be accomplished. Questions?"

  The hall was silent. There were no questions. There was only a cold, grim resolve.

  "Now—regarding composition and the codename," Major Neverov switched the slide, and the structure of their joint detachment appeared on the screen.

  JOINT SPECIAL-PURPOSE DETACHMENT COMPOSITION:

  Operation Codename: "Bogatyr"

  Detachment Commander: Major Alexey Neverov

  Assault Group Commanders: Captain Sergei Sokolov ("Falcon"), Senior Lieutenant Dmitri Volkov ("Wolf"), Senior Lieutenant Mikhail Medvedev ("Bear").

  A low, restrained murmur again went through the hall. The soldiers, used to dry, impersonal designations like "Object-17" or "Operation 'Shield'," couldn't suppress ironic smirks.

  "Operation 'Bogatyr'… I guess that officially makes us one of the legendary knights. Going after monsters and all," one of the captains drawled quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

  "You see the commanders' call signs? Falcon, Wolf, and Bear. All we're missing is a cunning fox to complete the set from a Russian fairy tale," his neighbor replied, and a few officers let out short, nervous laughs.

  Neverov raised a hand, and the laughter died instantly.

  "Take this seriously, comrades," his voice was ice again. "The name was not chosen by chance. To the local population, we must become exactly who they want us to be. Heroes. Saviors from ancient legends. This is part of a psychological operation."

  He swept the hall with a heavy gaze.

  "We deploy in three days. Primary reconnaissance is already in place. Rivers in the designated area, according to satellite data, are shallow; our vehicles will pass. The fortress-city of Tormeus has no moat, which simplifies assault operations. The winter there is harsh, but we decided against investing in snowmobiles—the main force will arrive later anyway, and our task is to deliver a swift, precise strike. All wheeled vehicles have already been fitted with winter tires. Prepare thoroughly. Check every piece of equipment. Questions?"

  There were no questions.

  "Dismissed."

  Two days later, the large landing ship Ivan Gren and two of the newest Project 22350 frigates, the Admiral Golovko and the Admiral Isakov, departed from the port of Sevastopol, setting a course for the distant Kingdom of Topa, where they would arrive in three days. The composition of the advance detachment was unusual, even experimental, assembled specifically for the unique conditions of the mission. They weren't there to storm cities, but to hunt specific, overwhelmingly powerful monsters.

  Secured in the hold of the landing ship were: one T-90M "Proryv" main battle tank and one T-14 "Armata"—a brand-new vehicle not yet officially in service, which they decided to test in real combat conditions against "non-standard" targets. Alongside them stood one BMP-3 infantry fighting vehicle and one T-15 heavy IFV, based on the Armata platform. Rounding out this armored group were two "Tigr" armored cars and one specialized vehicle based on the "Typhoon" chassis, equipped with an electronic warfare suite.

  "Well, Bogatyr knights, just like in a fairy tale," one of the officers joked grimly, looking at this menagerie. "Only instead of noble steeds, we have tanks, and instead of a magic sword, we have a 'hello' from a 152-millimeter cannon."

  And so, the advance special-purpose detachment, whose official mission was described as "humanitarian aid," and unofficial mission as a demon hunt, set off for Tormeus. They were sailing to save a kingdom. It sounded epic. But there was no other way to put it.

  Kingdom of Topa. Capital City of Berngen. Castle Nivel.

  In the high throne room of Castle Nivelle, where even the rare sunbeams piercing through the narrow, arrow-slit windows seemed to freeze and shatter into icy dust, King Rhodos abruptly sprang from his throne. The stone seat, carved from a single block of gray granite and adorned only with the battle runes of his ancestors, was cold and uncomfortable—the throne of a warrior, not a hedonist. The message he had just received via the manacomm had made his heart, weary from an endless succession of bad news, skip a beat and then pound with a feverish, almost painful force. It had come from the distant, almost mythical Moscow, across thousands of miles of a hostile, dying world. Russia. They had agreed. They were sending an advance detachment.

  "Incredible…" it flashed through his mind, not as an exclamation of joy, but as the whisper of a man who had witnessed a miracle he himself had ceased to believe in.

  Hope was a luxury he, as a ruler, could not afford for the past two weeks. Every new report from the front at Tormeus was like a hammer blow, chipping another piece from the foundation of his kingdom. His best commander, Aziz, reported monstrous losses; mages reported their spells were useless against the regenerating flesh of the ogres; scouts brought news of ever more legions of dark orcs arriving from the cursed continent. He had harbored so little hope for these enigmatic outsiders that his plea for help, sent to their ambassador, had seemed like a final, desperate roll of the dice by a player who had already lost.

  But the rumors… the rumors that had spread across the continent like wildfire were too persistent, too detailed, and too terrifying in their credibility to be ignored. Merchants from Sios spoke with reverent awe of "steel leviathans that belch the fire of the gods." Refugees from the shattered Louria, madness in their eyes, whispered of a "judgment from the heavens" that had descended upon their invincible army, of an "explosive magic" that burned cities and left not even ash of its warriors. If even a tenth of these stories were true, then… what the hell, maybe their detachment really could take down the Demon Lord.

  "The Russian army… it must be a detachment of the greatest battlemages this world has ever seen," the king thought, and his imagination, exhausted by images of bloody defeats, painted a saving, dazzlingly bright vision.

  He could almost see it in his mind's eye: mighty warriors in gleaming golden armor, forged from adamantite, with crimson capes billowing behind them. They soared through the sky not on horses or wyverns, but on griffins as white as the first snow—mythical creatures not seen in this world for thousands of years. Their magic staves, crowned with glowing crystals, unleashed pure, concentrated energy—lightning that split the earth and streams of fire that incinerated legions of demons. In his world, such incomprehensible, absolute power could have only one explanation—magic. Magic of a divine level, like that which, according to legends, was wielded only by the Messengers themselves.

  He was not alone in his fantasies. Everyone in this world, from the simple peasant in Tormeus praying in his cellar, to the highest-ranking generals in his staff who had heard of the Russians, pictured them exactly like this—as heroes from ancient legends, returned to save the world. This belief was irrational, it defied common sense, but it was the only thing his people had left. The only thing separating them from complete and final despair.

  They would soon arrive at Tormeus. His royal troops, his best knights, were suffering horrific losses but still held the line, digging into every stone, every inch of their native land. But he knew—it was only their death throes. They were holding on by a thread, like a bowstring stretched to its limit, ready to snap at any moment. The last managram from Aziz was dry and merciless: "Food supplies for three days. Morale… is holding on through honor and hatred."

  "I wonder… what are they really like, these people?" the king whispered into the echoing silence of the empty, cold hall, where the time-darkened battle banners of his ancestors hung on the walls—silent witnesses to long-gone victories.

  His fingers, clenched into fists, turned white. Expectation, mixed with a mad, irrational hope, overwhelmed him. He was a king. He was a strategist. He understood that by inviting a force into his home that he could neither comprehend nor control, he was risking everything. But he was also the father of his people. And when your children are dying in the flames, you will pray for rain, even if that rain might be an acid torrent that will wash away everything you have ever known and loved.

  Now, all he could do was wait for the reports. And pray that his fantasies bore at least some resemblance to the truth.