The Topa Kingdom. The outskirts of the fortress-city of Tormeus.

  The western half of Tormeus, the last bastion of resistance, was a hellscape. The defenders, exhausted and bloodied, scrambled along the walls like frightened ants. They dragged quivers of arrows, rolled boulders to the trebuchets. The air trembled with a mixture of sounds: the guttural roar of trolls, the shrieking of goblins, the whistle of arrows, and the creaking of siege engines. For two weeks, a handful of survivors had held back the onslaught of the demonic legions, holding a narrow passage across the river. But with each passing day, their numbers dwindled, their strength fading like the spring snow. The entire riverbank was strewn with corpses—mostly goblins, but among them, the massive carcasses of savage orcs were blackened shapes. The demons were in no hurry to cross this gruesome bridge of rotting bodies—it was too well covered by archers. Recently arrived armor-piercing bodkin points from the capital were striking terror even into the plate-clad high orcs, turning their vaunted armor into useless scrap.

  Meanwhile, a small detachment under the leadership of Moah and Gai left Tormeus through the southern gate. Their mission was simple and almost impossible—to meet the mysterious allies who were only being spoken of in whispers.

  "Moah, do you really believe this? That these 'Russians' are so tough?" Gai asked, squinting skeptically. His cynicism, forged in dozens of hopeless battles, refused to take fairy tales on faith.

  "I don't know what to believe, Gai," Moah answered honestly, not taking his eyes from the horizon.

  "But I've heard the reports from Fenn. They say the Russians turned a squadron of Parpaldian wyvern lords to dust. For me, that's a compelling argument."

  "Bullshit," the mercenary waved a hand.

  "Moah, understand, I've seen a lot of wars. There are always casualties on the front lines, always. There are no clean victories. Most likely, these Russians are just blowing smoke. They'll come riding in on their white horses, in shining gold armor… pfft, it's disgusting just to look at."

  Gai winced, as if from a toothache.

  "Just keep your thoughts to yourself. They are our guests," Moah looked at him with reproach.

  Suddenly, the ground beneath their feet began to tremble with a fine, sickening vibration.

  "What the hell?!" Gai cried out. "Why is the ground shaking?"

  Dust appeared on the horizon, and then dark, angular silhouettes began to take shape within it. They were moving at an unnatural speed, and a low, guttural hum emanated from them, a hum that made the very air vibrate.

  "Sir Moah! They have arrived!" a breathless messenger ran up to them.

  The iron monsters, which Moah and Gai had at first mistaken for giant, previously unseen earth drakes, drew closer. A column of several dozen vehicles came to a stop before them. The earth was humming. The knights of the escort, pale and shaken, dismounted.

  "Sir Moah… we… we have brought the reinforcements from the Russian Federation," one of them murmured, trying to hide his superstitious terror.

  A hatch on the lead vehicle, which resembled a predatory armored turtle, opened. A man jumped out. He was dressed in a strange, formless, mottled green uniform, and on his head, he wore a spherical, unadorned helmet. There was not a trace of the knightly grace they had expected to see in his appearance. Only a grim, utilitarian power.

  He walked toward them, his heavy boots crushing stones underfoot. Taking off his helmet, he looked at them. His face was young, weary, but his eyes were old, full of a cold, calm confidence.

  "Major Neverov, commander of the consolidated special purpose detachment. I have arrived to provide assistance," he said, in a crisp, military fashion, without any ceremony.

  Moah was taken aback for a moment by such directness.

  "I… I am Knight-Guardian Moah. We will escort you to our commandant. We are pleased to welcome you to the land of Topa."

  "Understood," Neverov replied curtly, putting his helmet back on. "Moving out."

  Moah and Gai, still in a state of shock, watched in silence as the iron behemoths, obeying a silent command, began to move again. The world of legends and fairy tales, in which they had so wanted to believe, had collapsed upon contact with this cold, soull-ess, but so very real and powerful force.

  The southern gates rose with a long, agonizing creak, and the steel column rolled into the relatively calm western part of Tormeus. The streets, which had been deserted just a moment before, instantly filled with people. The windows and doors of the houses flew open, and the pale, haggard faces of the townspeople appeared in the doorways. They poured out onto the sides of the street, to catch even a glimpse of these strange saviors about whom there were already whispers. The sight of the giant, clanking iron monsters, which seemed to make the very earth tremble, evoked a mixture of reverent awe and a final, desperate hope.

  Only the commander's "Tigr" armored car was able to make it to the castle of Tormeus itself; the narrow, medieval streets were not designed for the heavy tanks and infantry fighting vehicles, which were left to wait at the walls. Four men, including Major Neverov, disembarked from the "Tigr." Following a silent Moah, they rounded several corners of the ancient citadel until they found themselves before a massive, iron-banded door, covered in intricate runic carvings.

  Moah knocked respectfully. From behind the door, a muffled but commanding voice called out: "Enter."

  They walked into a spacious but semi-dark war council chamber. In the center, at a huge round table made from a single piece of ancient oak, stood a middle-aged man. Despite his lean build, he radiated an aura of indomitable power. His short hair, touched with a noble gray, and a neat beard contrasted with the battle scars on his face. He was dressed in silver plate armor over a red surcoat, on which was embroidered the crest of the kingdom.

  "Mr. Commandant," Moah said with a bow, "I have brought the guests from the Russian Federation. They have come to help us."

  Commandant Aziz slowly surveyed the newcomers. His stern, appraising gaze lingered for a moment on each of them, and then a flicker of a weary but sincere hope appeared in his eyes.

  "Honored guests from Russia. I, Commandant Aziz, am pleased to welcome you to this fortress," he said, bowing his head low.

  "Major Neverov, commander of the consolidated special purpose detachment. Good day," Neverov replied and, stepping forward, shook the offered hand.

  The handshake was firm. Two warriors, separated by millennia, sized each other up without a word.

  They sat down at the table. Aziz began his report, and with every word he spoke, the atmosphere in the room grew darker. The eastern district of the city, Minias, was completely under the control of the demons. Reinforcements from the capital had allowed them to halt the enemy's advance at the river, but the battle had settled into a bloody, exhausting stalemate. Two weeks of non-stop fighting. The warriors of Topa were holding on, but their strength was at its end. Nosgorath had made his lair in one of the captured manors, but no one knew where, exactly. Scouts sent behind enemy lines did not return. Of the nearly one thousand civilians who had been trapped in Minias, it was rumored that no more than two hundred were still alive. The demons were using them as human shields and… as provisions. The royal army's losses had already reached nearly half the garrison. And in the city square, taking turns, the Red and Blue Ogres stood constant watch, preventing any attempts to rescue the prisoners.

  "We have tried to break through to the town hall three times," Aziz concluded in a hollow voice. "Three times we have suffered horrific losses. Those ogres… they are nearly invulnerable. Our best blades cannot pierce their hides, and any wounds on them close up in a matter of seconds. They fight with the fury of berserkers, and it seems they know no fatigue."

  Neverov listened in silence, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the table. He understood perfectly: to wait for the main forces to arrive would be to condemn both the remaining prisoners and the exhausted garrison to death. The demons could break through the defense at any moment. It was necessary to act. Immediately.

  "I need a detailed map of the Minias district," he finally said, and his voice, firm and confident, sounded like a gunshot in the oppressive silence of the room. "Every house, every alley, every cellar. We will conduct a reconnaissance-in-force. And we will prepare a counter-strike."

  "Of course. Ar, bring the maps from that chest," Commandant Aziz pointed to a leather-bound chest that stood on a shelf. The young aide-de-camp rushed to carry out the order.

  "Yes, sir…"

  Suddenly, with a sharp, piercing whistle, the thick mica window of the hall shattered into a thousand pieces. A pulsating, bluish-black object, resembling a crystal, shot into the room, leaving a trail of icy cold in its wake.

  "TAKE COVER!" Major Neverov's roar, forged in dozens of battles, sounded before anyone from Topa had time to realize what was happening. He and his three men, with a single, lightning-fast movement that was honed to a bestial automaticity, dove behind a massive stone column, instantly taking up defensive positions.

  The Topan knights, however, were frozen, as if mesmerized, watching as the crystal in the air began to crack and disintegrate into thousands of tiny shards, which, like a swarm of bats, began to whirl with a shriek in the center of the room. The swarm thickened, condensed, and before the eyes of the stunned warriors, began to take on an anthropomorphic shape. Long, webbed wings appeared from the swirling darkness, and the figure itself, cloaked in a white, ethereally billowing shroud, silently descended onto the round table.

  "It's… the right hand of Nosgorath! Malastras!" Moah shouted, drawing his sword. In his eyes was a superstitious, animal terror.

  "Hah-ha-ha, what a clever half-elf! You recognize me," the demon spread its wings, and its voice, hoarse and hissing, seeped into the deepest corners of their minds, inducing nausea.

  "For that, you will be the last to die. And as for you…" its gaze, full of an ancient malice, came to rest on Commandant Aziz, "...you humans multiply so quickly. Only five thousand years have passed, and you already think this world is yours."

  The demon's face twisted into a sneer, baring rows of sharp, needle-like teeth.

  "And you, old man, will be the first to die! You insect!"

  Malastras's hand, which was without skin and seemed to be made of a condensed darkness, slowly rose. A vortex of black flame began to swirl around it, and the temperature in the room began to rise rapidly, as if they had been cast into the mouth of a volcano.

  "Not so fast, you spawn of hell! DIE!" the commandant's deputy, a mighty knight, charged forward with a furious roar, shielding his commander with his own body. He began to strike at the demon with desperate blows, but his sword passed through the ethereal figure, doing no harm.

  "Get off me, you gnat," Malastras muttered with a bored expression. "Hellfire."

  He casually flicked his hand. The black fire, as if alive, shot from his fingers and enveloped the knight. An inhuman scream of agony, which cut at the ears like a red-hot knife, sounded. A few moments later, all that was left on the floor was a molten, smoking breastplate.

  "Lieutenant!..." Aziz gasped, his legs buckling.

  "The Russians… they retreated at the sight of magic. Can it be that all the rumors were lies?..." Moah thought with bitterness, seeing that Neverov's men were not emerging from behind the column. But then he saw how they, communicating without words, with only gestures, had spread out, taking the demon in a crossfire.

  "You are a brave one, elf. You didn't even flinch," Malastras raised his hand again, and the black flame began to coalesce with a new, even greater strength.

  In the silence of the room, four dry clicks—the fire selectors on the special forces' rifles being switched to the fire position—sounded clearly, almost deafeningly.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "EVERYONE, ON THE FLOOR!" Major Neverov's roar, amplified by adrenaline, was like a clap of thunder.

  Gai, without a second thought, threw Moah to the floor with all his might, covering him with his own body.

  And then, all hell broke loose. It was not gunfire. It was a squall of fire. Short, precise, suffocatingly rapid bursts from four AK-12 assault rifles turned the air into a deadly stream of red-hot steel. The steel-core bullets, flying at supersonic speed, slammed into the body of Malastras. Its immateriality, its magic—all of it was useless in the face of this brutal, kinetic fury. Every hit tore chunks of black matter from its body. From its maw, dark blood, not incantations, began to pour. The deafening roar of the gunfire in the enclosed space was unbearable. One of the Topan officers, who had not had time to cover his ears, felt a hot blood begin to flow from them. But he didn't even notice, watching the events unfold with a mixture of horror and elation.

  "Reloading!" "Wolf" shouted.

  "Bear, cover me!" Neverov replied.

  "Controlled pair," "Falcon" said and, walking up to the limp, slumping body of the demon, he fired a single shot into its head. The head of Malastras burst like an overripe watermelon.

  It was all over. The silence that followed seemed even more deafening. The soldiers, lowering their rifles, helped the stunned and deafened Topan officers to their feet.

  "You… you…" Moah, still not believing his eyes, stared at the mangled corpse of Malastras. "He… he single-handedly destroyed a hundred of our best knights. He was constantly attacking us from the sky, burning men alive. And you… you just…"

  "Thank you," Commandant Aziz said in a hollow voice, and in his voice, the voice of an old, battle-hardened warrior, there was something new. A boundless, almost religious respect.

  After this incident, all doubts vanished. At a hastily convened war council, a decision was made. In two days, the army of Topa, with the support of the Russian detachment, would launch its final, decisive counter-offensive. At its vanguard, like a steel fist, would be the Russian armored vehicles.

  Two days later. The Topa Kingdom. The eastern district of Tormeus—Minias.

  The hell that had taken hold in the occupied district of Minias had only grown thicker and more foul over the past two days. Every hour of delay meant new, innocent victims, whose death cries echoed off the ancient stones and were drowned out by the visceral roars of the feasting demons. In the great halls and squares, which had been turned into prison camps, the goblins and orcs, with a sadistic delight, chose their next meal or toy. Any attempt at escape, no matter how timid, was met with a demonstratively brutal execution, to paralyze the will of those who remained with terror.

  Operation "Bogatyr" began at dawn, in the pre-dawn gloom that the locals called the "hour of the wolf," under the cover of a thick, icy fog that clung to the ground and muffled all sound.

  On the northern flank of Minias, drawing the main bulk of the enemy's attention, a column of Topan infantry and knights of the cavalry began a demonstrative, almost suicidal attack. They went into battle knowing that they were the bait. Their armor gleamed dully in the gray light, and in their eyes, despite a primal fear, a cold, sacrificial resolve burned. Simultaneously, across the river to the south, having forded it under the cover of night on pontoons laid by Russian sappers, the second, main strike group of the Topan army began its advance. But the main, most deadly blow was to be delivered from underground, directly into the heart of the enemy's lair.

  In a subterranean command post, set up in one of the surviving towers on the west bank, Major Neverov, bent over the screen of a tactical tablet, was coordinating the actions of dozens of disparate groups. The screen, which was linked to a drone hovering high in the stratosphere, displayed a thermal map of the city, on which the red patches of demon concentrations pulsed like festering boils.

  "CP, this is 'Bear.' My group with the T-15 has taken up an ambush position in the alley near the central square, in grid Victor-4. We are awaiting the appearance of Alpha-1. How copy?" the quiet voice of Senior Lieutenant Medvedev hissed over the radio. "Alpha-1" was the codename for the Red Ogre.

  "Copy, 'Bear,'" Neverov replied calmly. "Maintain complete radio silence until my command."

  "CP, this is 'Wolf.' We have crossed the river with the BMP-3s. Moving to point Bravo, preparing to support the northern flank of our allies with fire. How copy?"

  "Copy. 'Wolf,' you will engage on my command, and not before. Don't spook the game."

  "CP, this is 'Mole-1,' Sokolov reporting. We have exited the city sewer main. We have crossed the alley. We have a visual on Alpha-1 in the central square. Range is fifty meters. He is alone, no legionary escort. How copy?" Captain Sokolov's voice was tense, but perfectly calm.

  "Copy, 'Sokol.' Begin the provocation. Lure him to 'Bear's' position."

  "CP, this is 'Mole-2,' Sokolov's deputy reporting. We have located a concentration of hostages in the town hall building. Visual contact—sixteen goblin guards. How copy?"

  "Copy, 'Mole-2.' Engage. Quietly and quickly."

  The six soldiers of "Mole-2" group, like ghostly shadows, slipped silently toward the town hall. The short, almost soundless pops of suppressed rifles. The goblin guards fell like cut wheat. Fifteen minutes. The sector was clear. The survivors, who were mad with a mixture of terror and joy, were quickly given a sedative, tied up so they wouldn't get in the way, and handed over to a waiting detachment of Topan rangers.

  "CP, I am 'Mole-2.' Objective complete. Moving to link up with 'Mole-1.'"

  "Copy."

  "CP, this is 'Elephant-2.' We are on the northern flank, in cover. Ready for the show," the surprisingly cheerful voice of a T-90M tank commander came over the radio.

  "Copy, 'Elephant-2.'" Neverov took a deep breath. "'Sokol,' begin your operation."

  "Copy. Engaging. Out."

  The soldiers of "Sokol" group, having fanned out through the ruins of the houses that surrounded the central square, took up their positions. One of them, kneeling behind the remains of a marble balustrade, aimed his GP-25 "Kostyor" under-barrel grenade launcher. A muffled, coughing pop—and a 40mm VOG-25 grenade, tracing a high arc through the air, landed directly at the feet of the Red Ogre, who was lazily scratching himself as he sat on a pile of corpses.

  An explosion! Shrapnel fanned out, cutting down the orcs who were standing nearby. The Ogre itself, protected by its superhuman vitality and magical regeneration, had its left foot cleanly blown off below the ankle by the shockwave. It roared. It roared not from the pain, which it seemed to have barely felt. But from an offended, animalistic, primal rage of a creature that, for the first time in its life, had suffered a serious injury.

  "EVERYONE, FALL BACK! NOW! LURE HIM OUT!" Sokolov roared.

  The six soldiers, firing as they went, scrambled for the saving cover of the massive, angular hull of a T-15 heavy infantry fighting vehicle, which was waiting for them in a narrow alley. Stumbling, they ducked behind its steel side.

  The Red Ogre, having limped around the corner on its three remaining limbs, skidded to a halt. It tilted its huge head in confusion, studying the unfamiliar, tall, weapon-bristling creature of steel. An ancient, genetic memory screamed at it of danger.

  "It can't be…" it rumbled in its guttural, demonic tongue. "An iron dragon… of the messengers?..."

  Obeying its instinct, it spun around, intending to flee. But it was too late.

  "'Bear,' this is CP! Target is in the kill zone! Fire!"

  The commander of the T-15, Senior Lieutenant Medvedev, had been waiting for this moment.

  "Gunner! High-explosive fragmentation! At the torso! Burst fire!"

  TRRRRRR-R-R-R-R-R!

  The 57mm automatic cannon of the "Kinzhal" combat module spat a short but deadly burst with a deafening, air-tearing crack. The shells, each the size of a grown man's forearm, slammed into the Ogre. The first exploded on its back, turning its thick, enchanted hide into a bloody mess. The second tore off its right arm. The third and fourth shredded its torso.

  Its giant body was literally torn to pieces by a squall of fire and steel.

  "CP, this is 'Bear'! Alpha-1 has been eliminated! I repeat, Alpha-1 is mince-meat!" Senior Lieutenant Medvedev reported matter-of-factly.

  "Copy, 'Bear.' Good work. Clear your sector," Neverov replied, just as calmly.

  The T-15's coaxial 7.62mm machine gun began to mow down the stunned orcs, who were trying to retreat in terror. In a matter of seconds, the entire alley was filled with smoking corpses.

  At that moment, another, alarmed voice tore through the airwaves:

  "CP! This is 'Wolf'! The Topan regiments on the northern flank have broken and are in full retreat! The enemy has breached their defense and is in pursuit! I have a visual on up to three hundred savage orcs, over a hundred legionaries, and… shit… Alpha-2! He's out! We are engaging, trying to cover the withdrawal! 'Elephant-2,' we need your support! Immediately!"

  "Copy, 'Wolf'! Hold on! 'Elephant-2,' that's your target!" Neverov commanded.

  The crew of the T-90M "Breakthrough" tank, with a cold detachment, was already centering the Blue Ogre in its main sight. The monster, ignoring the fire from the 30mm cannon of "Wolf" group's BMP-3, was advancing straight at them, seeing the tank as the main threat.

  "Gunner, target is Alpha-2. High-explosive fragmentation with a proximity fuze. Detonation one meter before the target. Fire!" the T-90M commander ordered.

  The 125mm cannon spat its shell with a deafening roar. It exploded directly in front of the Blue Ogre's face. The massive shockwave and a cloud of red-hot shrapnel literally erased the upper half of its body. The savage orcs who had been running behind it froze for a moment in terror.

  "CP, this is 'Elephant-2.' Alpha-2 is destroyed. One shot. How copy?" the tanker reported.

  But their hesitation was short-lived. The BMP-3 of "Wolf" group, having been given a reprieve, concentrated the fire of its 30mm cannon on the running orcs, turning them into a bloody pulp.

  And then, from the thick coniferous forest that bordered the northern part of the battlefield, with a heavy, earth-shaking tread, they appeared. The trolls. Dozens of massive giants, clad in crude, rusty plate.

  "'Bear,' this is CP! I have a new enemy group! Move north, support 'Wolf' and 'Elephant-2'! 'Elephant-1,' you're up!" Neverov commanded.

  "Copy, CP! On our way!" Medvedev replied.

  Senior Lieutenant Medvedev, from inside his T-15, gave the order:

  "'Elephant-1,' your task is the lead troll. Aim for the legs, take away its mobility! 'Tigr' machine-gunners—fire on the crossbowmen. 'Wolf' group—continue to cover the Topans! Engage!"

  The T-14 "Armata" tank was the first to fire. A high-explosive fragmentation shell with a programmable fuze slammed into the ground directly in front of the charging troll. The powerful explosion and the shockwave kicked the ground out from under it. The giant, losing its balance, collapsed with a deafening crash. It tried to get up, but at that moment, a burst of 57mm shells from the approaching T-15 slammed into its unprotected side.

  The second troll was less lucky. A HEAT grenade from an RPG-30, fired by one of the special forces soldiers from "Bear" group, burned through its cuirass and detonated inside. It froze in mid-stride and collapsed, dead.

  The remaining trolls, realizing that a frontal assault was suicide, began to fall back.

  "'Wolf,' you're up!" Neverov commanded.

  The commander of the BMP-3, Senior Lieutenant Volkov, had been waiting for this moment.

  "Driver, all ahead full! We're flanking them!"

  The BMP-3, its engine roaring, shot forward, moving to outflank the retreating trolls and orcs.

  "ATGM, prepare for combat! Target is the cluster at the edge of the forest!" Volkov ordered.

  Two 9M133M-2 guided missiles from the "Kornet-D" anti-tank complex, with their tandem HEAT warheads, shot from the launchers on the BMP-3's turret. Leaving thin, smoky trails behind them, and guided by a laser beam, they raced toward their targets. The first missile struck the exact center of a cluster of orc crossbowmen who were taking cover behind a large boulder. The explosion and the cumulative jet turned their cover, and them, into a bloody mess. The second missile slammed into the back of the last, largest troll, just as it was trying to turn. It roared in pain and fury, but it was too late. The 30mm 2A72 automatic cannon mounted on the BMP-3 hit it at point-blank range. A short, vicious burst tore through its mangled body, leaving it no chance of survival. Simultaneously, the T-90M tank, which had moved up to a direct-fire position, ended its agony with a single, precise shot from its 125mm gun, turning the troll's head to a rubble of stone and bone.

  The lesser dark orcs, deprived of their living battering ram and seeing their last hope erased from the face of the earth, panicked. Their primitive discipline, which was based on the fear of the stronger, evaporated. With wild, terror-filled cries, they fled into the depths of the forest. But there, they were met by the fire of the heavy 12.7mm "Kord" machine guns from the "Tigr" armored cars and a squall of rifle fire from the dismounted special forces soldiers, who, operating in disciplined two- and three-man teams, methodically, sector by sector, cleared the forest, leaving no one a chance to escape.

  The battle for Minias was over. It had ended not with a victory cry, but with a dead silence, broken only by the moans of the wounded, the crackling of the burning bodies, and the dry, businesslike reports of the Russian commanders over the radio.

  The Russian soldiers returned to the western part of Tormeus as heroes. Legendary, almost mythical figures, whose deeds had already begun to be embellished with rumors and tall tales. Their names were passed from mouth to mouth in whispers full of reverence and superstitious terror. They had entered the history of this world, and their shadow would forever lie upon its fate.

  A journal entry, written by the light of a dim oil lamp in a surviving tower of Tormeus. The hand holding the quill still trembles, and the parchment smells not of ink, but of smoke and dried blood.

  "I do not know how to describe what I have witnessed. Perhaps it was providence itself that made me not just a participant, but a chronicler of events about which future generations will tell legends. The truly mighty army of the Demon Lord, the very same that, five millennia ago, brought almost the entire known world to its knees, was today… fractured. Broken is too strong a word. But its indestructible might has cracked. Here, at the walls of our Tormeus.

  We held for two weeks. Two weeks of an unending, concentrated hell. Our losses drove me to madness. Every fallen comrade, every desperate cry of a wounded man begging for death—all of it still rings in my ears, never ceasing for a moment. I still cannot comprehend how our great ancestors, the Four Heroes, were able to fight back against these legions. The demon Malastras, as he died, was right. We have evolved. Our steel has grown stronger, our armor tougher, our tactics more cunning. But it was not enough. If not for the Blue and the Red Ogres, those indestructible hammers of Nosgorath, we might have been able to hold them. To throw them back.

  But then, something happened that is beyond my comprehension. Something that breaks the very logic of the warfare I have known. The Russian forces… with an almost insulting, casual ease, they dealt with the ogres. Those immortal, regenerating monsters, the embodiment of a primal terror, were destroyed in a matter of moments. As if they were not the greatest warriors of Nosgorath, but simply… an unfortunate nuisance. As if a lion were swatting away annoying flies.

  Their weapons. They are not mighty. That is not the right word. They are… absolute. They crush. They annihilate. They leave no chance. They exist on the other side of magic, of valor, of honor. It is a cold, soulless, mathematically precise machine of death, before which the courage of a warrior means no more than the strength of a butterfly's wing in a hurricane.

  The war is not yet over. We must see this through to the end. The main enemy, Nosgorath himself, is still alive and hiding in his dark lair. But for the first time in these terrible weeks, I feel not only despair. I feel hope. A wild, irrational, but no less intoxicating hope. And now… now I believe that with allies like these, we can do it.

  But one, chilling question will not leave me. What comes after? What will become of our world, now that a piece has appeared on its chessboard that is capable of sweeping away all the others with a single move? We asked for salvation. And the Messengers, as I am becoming more and more convinced, have indeed come, just as in the ancient legends. But what price will we pay for this salvation tomorrow? When the demons are defeated, and our saviors remain here, with us, with their absolute, incomprehensible, and terrifying power?"