Evening in Cartalpas, the jewel and main seaport of the Central Continent.

  The city glittered with the lights of magical lanterns, their steady, white glow reflecting on the stone streets, damp from a light drizzle. In the "Sea Dragon" tavern, a respectable establishment near the merchant harbor, the usual evening atmosphere of a solid but bustling port city prevailed. It was a haven not only for sailors weary of the sea but also for wealthy merchants, imperial navy officers, and visiting mercenaries whose attire and weaponry spoke of their high status.

  The air here was thick, saturated with the pungent aroma of expensive tobacco from the continent of Mu, the smell of spiced roasted meat, and the salty sea breeze wafting in through the open windows. Massive, dark, polished wooden tables were crowded with pewter and silver tankards, and benches covered in the hides of sea beasts comfortably accommodated the numerous patrons. Deals were made here, tall tales of sea monsters were spun, and the latest world news was discussed.

  "So, Farry, is your better half gonna let you in the door tonight?" a boatswain from a merchant clipper boomed, slamming a heavy pewter tankard on the table. His face was red and weather-beaten, but his clothes were clean, and his beard was neatly trimmed.

  "Why wouldn't she?" Farry, a burly longshoreman, grumbled in surprise, popping a piece of smoked eel into his mouth. "Got my pay, gave her half. I've got a right to relax."

  "You've got a right, until she sees the tab from the tavernkeep…" his neighbor, a young merchant whose silk doublet marked him as a guest from distant lands, chuckled.

  "Alright, gentlemen, quiet down! The news is starting!" the broad-shouldered tavernkeep bellowed, pointing to a large magic panel above the fireplace. The conversations instantly died down, replaced by a tense hum of anticipation. All eyes, from the drunkest sailors to the soberest officers, were fixed on the panel as a grand, musical theme swelled from it.

  This artifact, which could be considered the magical equivalent of a "television," was the pinnacle of Mirishial technology and a source of the Empire's pride. Only here, in the most powerful of the superpowers, could one see an image not just in black and white, but in full color with clear sound. Once a week, this "window to the world" broadcast news from every corner of the civilized regions. For the merchants, it was invaluable information about new markets and pirate threats. For the officers, it was crucial data on the geopolitical situation. And for the common people, it was a captivating spectacle that allowed them to feel a part of a great and invincible Empire, whose center was right here, in Cartalpas.

  "I welcome you, honored subjects and guests of the Great Empire. This is the weekly broadcast of the 'World Herald.' Today, we have truly incredible news that will change your understanding of the geopolitical landscape. And now, to the most important story," a velvety, perfectly modulated announcer's voice boomed from the panel, his three-dimensional image, clad in a richly embroidered robe, appearing in the center of the hall.

  "Quick, bring the betting ledger! The war in Fenn! I'm putting a hundred gold on Parpaldia to win!" a scratchy voice cawed from a far corner. A thin, weasel-like bookie emerged from behind a table.

  A buzz of activity immediately swept through the tavern. The tavernkeep, with a heavy sigh, pulled a thick, copper-bound tome from under the counter—the "Sea Dragon" betting ledger. The patrons, forgetting their drinks, rushed to the bar, shouting their wagers.

  "Two hundred gold on Parpaldia! They'll steamroll those savages!"

  "My dagger against your tankard that Fenn falls in three days!"

  "A thousand on Parpaldia not losing a single ship!"

  At a table in the corner, the merchant Nicolaus Broris (also known as SVR resident Boris Nikolaevich) calmly sipped his exotic tea. He waited for the excitement to die down and then, approaching the counter, quietly said:

  "Five thousand gold. On the victory of the Russian Federation."

  The bookie froze, then burst out laughing. The entire tavern turned to look.

  "Five thousand?! On the barbarians?! Merchant, are you out of your mind?! That's a guaranteed loss!"

  "Perhaps," Nicolaus Broris smiled calmly. "But I like to take risks."

  He returned to his table amidst a chorus of jeers. The operation to plant information and undermine faith in Parpaldia's power was beginning. And he was not only going to complete his mission but also make a tidy profit from it.

  "The Parpaldia Empire, the world's fourth-strongest superpower and the undisputed hegemon of the Third Civilized Zone, has suffered a crushing defeat in its war against an alliance that the Parpaldians, with their characteristic arrogance, had dubbed 'uncivilized barbarians'," the announcer's voice was dispassionate, but each of his words fell into the deathly silence that had descended upon the tavern like the blow of a funeral gavel.

  "The Empire's losses, for the first time in its two-hundred-year history, have broken all records. Its invasion fleet has been practically annihilated. This alliance consisted of the samurai Kingdom of Fenn and a mysterious country in the far east—the Russian Federation. The shockwave from this event has already rolled across the entire Philades continent, triggering a chain reaction of rebellions in Parpaldia's vassal states."

  The vast majority of those who had bet on Parpaldia's victory stood with stone-faced expressions. Tankards of ale froze halfway to their mouths. Jaws slowly dropped. The bookie, holding the ledger, turned as white as a sheet. His eyes reflected not just financial ruin—they reflected the terror of realizing that the world he knew had just been turned upside down.

  But to everyone's astonishment, a calm, confident voice broke the dead silence:

  "Well, it appears I have won. I would like my winnings calculated, my good sir."

  All heads turned. It was the "merchant Nicolaus Broris." He calmly finished his tea and, with a faint, almost mocking smile, looked at the petrified bookie. At that moment, he was not just a winner. He was the harbinger of a new, terrifying, and incomprehensible era. And everyone in that tavern, from the lowliest longshoreman to the wealthiest merchant, felt it. The world would never be the same.

  "AND SO, GENTLEMEN! THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION IS VICTORIOUS!" the tavernkeep boomed, slamming the dusty ledger shut with a theatrical flourish. He broke into a wide, satisfied grin—his establishment would make a fortune tonight. "All money wagered on Parpaldia's victory goes to our discerning guest, Mr. Nicolaus Broris! Please step up to the bar for your winnings!"

  "Well now, Nicolaus, are you buying a round?!" the boatswain rasped, nudging Boris Nikolaevich in the side. His face was a mixture of envy and reverent respect. "Betting against Parpaldia… Who would've thought!"

  "Intuition, my friends. And a little analysis," Boris smiled modestly, rising to his feet. He had indeed hit a jackpot that would be enough to fund his entire intelligence network for a year. "Of course, the drinks are on me! Tavernkeep! Ale for everyone, on my tab! Let this be a night to remember!"

  The tavern erupted in joyful shouts. The losers, though disappointed, made their way to the bar for a free drink, all the while showering "Nicolaus" with questions and congratulations. His operation had been a success.

  The renewed cheer, however, was different. It was laced with anxiety. The men drank, but their conversations were no longer about women and work, but about the mysterious Russia, the weakness of superpowers, and how unsafe this world had become. And then their talk was once again cut short by the announcer's voice.

  "And now to news from the western frontiers. The Gra Valkas Empire, known for having recently crushed the superpower Leifor, has sent an official request to Runepolis to join the 'Assembly of Eleven Superpowers'."

  Silence fell over the tavern again. But this time, it was a tense, icy silence. If the news of Parpaldia's defeat was a shock, this was the tremor before an earthquake. Gra Valkas. A name spoken in whispers. A power that played by its own, even more brutal and incomprehensible rules.

  "They crushed Leifor, the fifth-strongest superpower, like a rotten fruit…" one of the navy officers muttered. "And now they want to talk. About what? Redrawing the map of the world?"

  "What if…" Nicolaus Broris said quietly, once again drawing everyone's attention, "…what if they want to gather everyone to challenge… these Russians?"

  The thought, which no one had dared to voice, hung in the air like an executioner's axe. Everyone involuntarily exchanged glances. Two titans from another world. One in the west. The other in the east. And their world—caught in between. They had just rejoiced at the fall of one arrogant neighbor. But was it only for two new, immeasurably more terrifying players to take its place?

  The merriment died out completely. The men silently finished their free ale, but it no longer brought them joy. Anxiety was written in their eyes. The world that had seemed so unshakable was cracking at the seams. And no one knew what tomorrow would bring. But one thing was clear: The Great Game had just entered a completely new, global, and deadly phase.

  Superpower Mu. Capital City of Otaheit. A luxury suite at the Ocean Breeze Hotel.

  In the spacious luxury suite, whose panoramic window offered a breathtaking view of the glittering lights of Otaheit at night, the atmosphere was one of tense intellectual combat. Technology specialist Myrus Leclerc and tactical officer Lassan Deviline, key figures in Mu's military delegation recently returned from Russia, were conducting an unofficial debrief. The phenomenal accuracy and rate of fire of the destroyer Nastoychivyy's guns still lingered in their minds, shattering all their preconceived notions about the capabilities of artillery.

  "I still can't believe what we saw," Lassan muttered, nervously pacing the soft carpet. His face, usually calm and calculating, was tense. "One ship destroys four targets in a minute, firing from a distance that we consider beyond the horizon. This isn't just a technological advantage. It's… a different physics."

  Myrus, in contrast, sat at a table buried under stacks of printouts provided by the Russian side—technical encyclopedias, open-source data, translations. His eyes burned with the feverish, almost manic fire of a scientist who had stumbled upon terra incognita.

  "Not a different physics, Lassan. The same one. They just understand it far more deeply," he tapped a finger on a diagram of a ballistic computer. "Here! This is their secret! They don't rely on a gunner's intuition. They calculate the trajectory. They account for everything: the target's speed, our speed, wind, humidity, even the planet's rotation! And then a machine gives the gun a command. This isn't the art of war. This is the mathematics of murder."

  Lassan winced. "And what about their 'missiles'? Or 'torpedoes'? Self-propelled projectiles that can change course and track a target? That's not mathematics anymore. That's black magic, Myrus! Our myths about Ravernal describe similar weapons!"

  "It's not magic! It's brilliant engineering!" Myrus jumped up, his voice trembling with excitement. "LSI microchips, radar, self-guidance systems! We can replicate the basic principles! Yes, it will take decades, a ton of resources. But they've shown us the way! They've given us a future! We can surpass Mirishial!"

  "Or be crushed!" Lassan cut him off sharply. "You see them as teachers. I see a new, unpredictable power that just wiped out one of the five superpowers without breaking a sweat. What's to stop them from doing the same to us later if our interests diverge? Their military might and ours are as incomparable as the sun and the moon. Before their fleet and air force, our entire army is nothing more than cannon fodder."

  Both fell silent, and in the ensuing quiet, only the distant hum of the city beyond the window could be heard. Both were right. And in this duality—the excitement of new possibilities and the mortal fear of a new threat—lay the central dilemma facing the entire nation of Mu.

  "But they are our allies," Myrus said uncertainly.

  "Today, they're allies," Lassan replied hollowly. "Because they need a counterbalance to the Gra Valkas Empire in the west. After seeing what I've seen, I'm almost certain their technology can stand up to even Gra Valkas. But what happens after they've dealt with them? Who will be next on the list? We must be very, very careful. Friendship with a dragon is a dangerous game. Especially if you don't know when it will get hungry again."

  "So what are your real thoughts on Russia's technology, Myrus?" Lassan asked, breaking the silence. He had dropped all diplomatic pretense; now it was not officials speaking, but two professionals who had stared into the abyss.

  Myrus, with a look of astonishment and almost sacred horror, walked over to a bulky but impeccably made device standing on a separate table. It was a gift from the Russian side, left for them "to simplify calculations." a programmable microcalculator "Elektronika MK-52"—a late 1980s Soviet design.

  "This! It's this! They call it a 'training aid.' A gift they didn't even bother to wrap! I was up all night trying to understand how it works. No gears. No levers. Inside, there's a thin circuit board with strange black crystals…"

  He walked over to the machine and turned it on. A dim red LED display lit up. He quickly pressed a few keys.

  "Look! I just calculated the square root of a twenty-digit number. Instantly! Our best mathematician would need several days and a stack of slate boards for that!"

  Myrus looked at Lassan in desperation.

  "Do you know how much the famous Mirishial magic calculator costs? Its price is comparable to that of our newest destroyer! It weighs thirty pounds! And the Russians… when I mentioned it, they just smiled politely and said, 'Ah, mechanical arithmometers? Very elegant things. We have those in our Polytechnic Museum, right next to Polzunov's steam engine.'"

  Myrus pointed again at the small, humming calculator.

  "They gave us this—scrapped junk, by their standards—and this junk, Lassan, is orders of magnitude more capable than the mythical 'wonder' of Mirishial! For us, it's as if an ancient craftsman who had spent his life forging swords saw our biplane in the sky. And then the pilot, after landing, said, 'Oh, this old thing? Junk, really, a shame to throw it out. Want me to show you a real plane?'"

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  "I agree," Lassan said, sadly taking a sip from a tall glass filled with a sparkling green drink the Russians called "Tarhun," which they had brought back with them. The taste was strange, herbal, but refreshing. "It wasn't their tech that struck me, but their tactics. Their entire concept of war. They act quickly, decisively, with almost surgical brutality. They give you no time to recover, ruthlessly destroying command centers, logistics, and only then the army itself. They wage war not with numbers, but with intellect. If we can defeat the Parpaldian fleet with minimal damage, then Russia is capable of sinking both our fleet and the Parpaldian fleet at the same time, without even noticing it." Lassan let out a heavy breath and leaned back in his chair, trying to hide his agitation.

  Both specialists sighed in unison, as if trying to release their frustration and the realization of their own backwardness. An oppressive silence fell in the suite, broken only by the distant hum of Otaheit at night outside the window.

  "You know, Lassan, we still have a path forward," Myrus suddenly broke the silence. He took a perfectly sharpened pencil and a sheet of paper from his briefcase. In his eyes, the fire of an engineer solving an impossible problem ignited once again.

  "And what's that?" Lassan leaned forward, his eyes, like a predator's, lighting up with interest. He saw that Myrus was drawing not a rifle or a ship. He was drawing the rough but recognizable silhouette of a missile.

  "First and foremost—infantry armament," Myrus began to sketch quickly, almost feverishly. His pencil flew across the paper. "We need semi-automatic weapons. The Russians have the SKS self-loading carbine, which they consider obsolete. We can use it as a basis, adapt it to our 7.7×56mm unitary cartridge. This will instantly triple the firepower of every soldier! Then—submachine guns. Their 'Shpagin' is from the same era… We can create our own equivalent for assault groups and vehicle crews."

  "Next—vehicles," he continued, drawing the rough outline of an armored car. "We don't need their main battle tank. Not yet. We start small. A light armored car with a heavy machine gun. Create the first experimental mechanized companies. And after that—missiles. Yes, our first models will be unguided, slow, and inaccurate compared to their 'Moskits,' but it will be our first step into the missile age! It will force our General Staff to abandon the doctrine of trench warfare in favor of mobile, mechanized warfare. With this, we will surpass the Holy Mirishial Empire itself, which still fancies itself the ruler of the world!" Myrus finished, looking at his friend with eyes burning with excitement.

  "Hmm, interesting plans. Very ambitious. But our General Staff…" Lassan thoughtfully rubbed his chin. "They'll cling to their familiar tactics for decades. It will take an eternity to retrain the army." He paused for a moment, and his gaze grew serious and grim. "By the way. What are your thoughts on the Gra Valkas Empire?"

  Myrus's enthusiasm instantly vanished. He set down the pencil.

  "We have almost no information on their capabilities. Our recon groups that we tried to insert into former Leifor are disappearing without a trace, as if swallowed by darkness. We don't know their tactics. We don't know their weaponry. That's precisely why I sketched out this plan, Lassan," Myrus looked seriously at his friend. "We have to prepare for the worst. Because when Gra Valkas, after finishing with our neighbors, comes knocking on our door, we don't know what they'll bring. But we must be ready to answer."

  "You're right, Myrus," Lassan finally agreed. "It's better to have some new weapon, than to have none at all."

  On that note, their strategy session fizzled out. They silently raised their glasses. What followed was ordinary, almost human conversation over a fine meal—about home, about families, about how strange and frightening this world had become. But they both understood: today, in this hotel suite, a new military doctrine for Mu had been born. A doctrine of survival.

  Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Russian Federation, Moscow.

  Yuuhi, the Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the superpower Mu to the Russian Federation, struggled to contain his sense of awe as he walked through the echoing, carpeted corridors of the Stalinist-era skyscraper on Smolenskaya Square. He felt out of place among these tall, oppressively monumental buildings, constructed in a completely alien, almost otherworldly, architectural style. Everything here was saturated with power and history—a different, unfamiliar history, but no less impressive for it.

  "Mr. Ambassador, please," the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Georgy Borisovich Vorontsov, smiled. His face radiated warmth and hospitality, but deep within his intelligent, slightly narrowed eyes, Yuuhi detected a will of steel and cold calculation. "Tea? Coffee? Something stronger, I'm afraid, I cannot offer during business hours." The minister graciously gestured to a soft leather armchair standing by a massive desk made of Karelian birch.

  "Tea, if I may," Yuuhi replied with restraint but with gratitude, taking a seat.

  "Of course," the minister nodded to his secretary. When the assistant brought two steaming cups of aromatic tea and departed as silently as a shadow, Vorontsov continued, his tone becoming more business-like. "Mr. Ambassador, I have a request for you, as a representative of a friendly power. And I very much hope that your government will treat it with understanding."

  "And what might that be, Georgy Borisovich?" Yuuhi inquired. He was intrigued.

  The minister, like a magician, pulled several large, perfectly printed photographs on glossy paper from a folder.

  "This… this is impossible! Such detail! From the sky?!" Yuuhi gasped, looking at a satellite image of the Ruvile airfield in Altaras. He could see every stone on the runway, every crack in the concrete.

  "As you can see, this airfield, which your state began to construct in the Kingdom of Altaras, is now abandoned and under the control of the Parpaldia Empire," Vorontsov watched the ambassador closely, assessing his reaction. "We would like to receive official permission from your government for the use of this facility by our Armed Forces. As well as for its modernization and expansion for the needs of our military transport aviation."

  Yuuhi froze for a moment. He was not a soldier, but he was an experienced diplomat, and he understood perfectly well that this was not just a request. This was an invitation to enter the war on Russia's side, albeit covertly.

  "Yes, this airfield has been mothballed by us. There is not a single citizen of Mu on its territory. As for its use…" Yuuhi hesitated for a moment, choosing his words. "You see, Georgy Borisovich, formally, the land under the airfield belongs to the sovereign Kingdom of Altaras. We are merely lessees. And although their land is currently occupied, we cannot dispose of it without the consent of the legitimate government…"

  "The legitimate government of the Kingdom of Altaras, in the person of King Taara XIV and Princess Lumies, currently under the protection of the Russian Federation, has already given its full and unconditional consent," Vorontsov interrupted calmly, as if stating an obvious fact.

  Yuuhi felt a chill run down his spine. The Russians had thought everything through several moves ahead.

  "In that case… I will immediately send a request to Otaheit. I am confident that my government, considering our common threats in the west, will not object," Yuuhi replied with a slight sigh, but now with firmness in his voice.

  "That is wonderful news," the minister beamed, and two cunning sparks glinted in his eyes. "And, while we're at it, Mr. Ambassador… The Russian government is considering making an exception for Mu, as our key strategic partner, to the 'Law on the Control of Technology Outflow.' Perhaps some of our civilian technologies, such as computers or LSI chips, might be of interest to you… in the future."

  Yuuhi felt his breath catch. This was not just an offer. This was the jackpot. A once-in-a-millennium chance.

  "Mr. Minister…" he jumped to his feet, forgetting all diplomatic etiquette. "I… on behalf of my entire nation… we would be immeasurably grateful! I will do everything to ensure the request for the airfield is approved in the shortest possible time!"

  Vorontsov gave a restrained smile. The piece had been placed on the board. And now, it would play on his side.

  The Holy Mirishial Empire. Capital City of Runepolis. Central Intelligence Analysis Bureau.

  Within the walls of the Central Intelligence Analysis Bureau, hidden in one of the nondescript yet impossibly magic-shielded buildings in the very heart of Runepolis, the atmosphere was one of tense, almost feverish work. Magical light fixtures, floating beneath high vaulted ceilings, cast a cold, merciless light on piles of reports, maps, and decoded managrams covering the analysts' desks. Here, in the quiet of offices where the air was thick with the smell of old parchment and ozone from working artifacts, an invisible war was raging—a war for information. Specialists, their faces pale from sleepless nights and their eyes shining with a feverish glint, sifted through stacks of dispatches, searching for confirmation or refutation of new, increasingly insane rumors.

  After long hours of painstaking work, the Bureau came to a bleak, almost apocalyptic conclusion: two new, incredibly powerful states had appeared on the world stage, whose ambitions and military might were equally frightening.

  The first blow to the familiar world order was the Gra Valkas Empire. Information had come in that the royal couple of Paganda, with misplaced arrogance, had treated their ambassador—who, according to unconfirmed reports, was the son and heir of the Gra Valkas emperor—with contempt. Insulted, he had declared war on the entire Second Civilized Region. What followed was a blitzkrieg: Gra Valkas, in a matter of days, had swept the Kingdom of Paganda, a protectorate of Leifor, from the map like a hurricane, and then, with unimaginable brutality, had destroyed Leifor itself—the world's fifth-strongest superpower—with a single ship. This news sent tremors through the hearts of every capital in the known civilization.

  But they had barely begun to analyze this threat when a second, even stranger and more inexplicable report arrived from the east—about the Russian Federation.

  "What have you learned about the Gra Valkas Empire? Give me the essentials," the Director of the Analysis Bureau, Arneus, asked. His face, as if carved from old marble, was impenetrable, but the way he slowly turned a heavy crystal paperweight in his fingers betrayed an immense inner tension.

  "According to data from our intelligence network," his assistant, a young analyst with a feverish glint in his eyes, began his report, "we have located their capital, Ragna. Based on managraphs taken from extreme range, the architecture of their cities resembles neither ours nor Mu's. It is a completely different civilization. We have also analyzed their naval battle with Leifor. The conclusion of our naval experts is unequivocal: their Atlastar-class super-dreadnought is at least comparable, and possibly superior, in overall power to our newest magic battleships. Their infantry is armed with rapid-fire firearms of purely mechanical action; no magical influence was detected." The assistant paused and swallowed nervously.

  "We also recorded mechanical infantry support machines—'tanks.' From all appearances, they are similar to those our agent Ridge from the Kingdom of Topa reported on in his first dispatch about the Russians."

  A headache, like an iron band, tightened around Director Arneus's temples. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. The thought that another powerful, technologically advanced country had appeared out of nowhere caused him almost physical pain. He understood: new predators had arrived, ones that would have to be reckoned with sooner or later.

  "The second item…" the assistant continued, seeing the Director's barely perceptible nod, looking at his superior with concern.

  "The second event is related to the incident in the Kingdom of Topa. A country from an uncivilized region, calling itself the Russian Federation, sent its troops to assist in the fight against a bio-magical weapon of the ancient Ravernal Empire, known as the Demon Lord Nosgorath. And… emerged completely victorious."

  "The weapon that the Russian Federation used against the Demon Lord, they call a 'BTR'," the assistant continued, his voice dropping, almost reverent. "By our classification, this is a light version of their main heavy armament, the 'tank.' It is designed for the rapid deployment of troops and their fire support. No residual magical influence was detected. The conclusion is obvious: Russia, like Gra Valkas, is a nation of science, disdaining the power of magic."

  He carefully placed a stack of managraphs, taken by agent Ridge at great personal risk, on the desk in front of the director. On them, in blurry but all the more horrifying detail, were Russian armored vehicles amidst the ruins of Tormeus.

  "Here, your excellency. This is the so-called BTR, and this is their tank. According to the estimates of our engineers from the Technology Bureau, the engine power required to move machines of such mass at such speed is beyond the capabilities of our best magic reactors. They cannot be copied. Also noteworthy is their use of guided missiles. They are faster and orders of magnitude more accurate than our analogues, and their destructive power appears to surpass any of our own weapons."

  The assistant took a deep breath, preparing to deliver the final, most terrifying conclusion.

  "In summary, we can state with full confidence: the Russian Federation is more scientifically, technologically, and militarily advanced than our Great Empire. In an open conflict, we would not be able to defeat them. This is an existential threat to the Holy Mirishial Empire. Our recommendation: immediately initiate a dialogue with the Russian authorities and endeavor to establish friendly, or at the very least, predictable relations."

  "Gather more information," the director ordered hollowly, trying to hide his agitation behind a mask of icy calm. "And find a way to open a dialogue with them. Before it's too late."

  "Yes, sir," the assistant replied and, with a bow, left the office.

  Arneus was left alone. He slowly walked over to the enormous, floating magical map of the world. In the west, the Gra Valkas Empire burned like a pulsating red sore. In the east, the Russian Federation now blazed with the same color. And his own, great and, as he had always believed, invincible, Holy Mirishial Empire was caught between them, as if in a vise.

  "Two titans from another world…" he whispered into the silence. "And both are predators."

  A cold terror seized him. The world he knew, the one they ruled, was over. A new, terrifying game had begun. And he, the head of intelligence, for the first time in his life, did not know the rules.

  Russian Federation. Moscow. National Defense Management Center.

  In the main briefing room of the National Defense Management Center—the "brain" of the Russian Armed Forces—an absolute, almost ringing silence reigned. On the gigantic interactive screen that occupied the entire wall, a satellite map of the Kingdom of Altaras was displayed with surgical precision. High-ranking military officials—generals and admirals with faces as if carved from granite—studied the data streaming in from orbit in complete silence. The hastily convened meeting was dedicated to the development and approval of the plan for Operation "Retribution: Phase 1"—the liberation of the Kingdom of Altaras.

  The intelligence data, obtained thanks to a new satellite constellation, was exhaustive. Three key nodes of the Parpaldian occupation force were marked on the map with red icons, like festering sores.

  "Objective 'Falcon'," the chief of the Main Operations Directorate, a colonel general, began, pointing a laser pointer at a dot near the capital, Le Brias. "The same airfield transferred to us by Mu. The Parpaldians, it seems, have realized its strategic importance. To the southeast of the runway, they are constructing a full-fledged fort. Walls, towers, and most importantly—stables for wyvern lords. The capture and holding of this airfield is the priority objective. It is our beachhead for further operations against the Empire's mainland."

  He moved the laser dot.

  "Objective 'Shark.' The port near Le Brias. In the roadstead—a squadron of twenty ships-of-the-line and frigates. This is their main naval fist in the region. Its destruction is necessary to ensure the safety of our landing ships and future sea convoys."

  Finally, the beam came to rest on a third point.

  "Objective 'Bear.' Thirty miles north of the capital. A strong fortified position controlling the main highway. According to our data, the bulk of their infantry is concentrated there. The task is complete neutralization."

  The colonel general lowered the pointer and swept the room with a heavy gaze.

  "In summary: three key targets. Conveniently located, far from the main residential areas. The proposed course of action: at H-hour, the Russian Aerospace Forces will conduct a simultaneous, massive missile and bombing strike on these three points. The goal is to maximally weaken their defenses and demoralize the enemy before the main landing force goes in."

  "…And the rest, gentlemen, after our Aerospace Forces have knocked their teeth out," the colonel general concluded, "will depend on the Altarans themselves. On their will to win. Our SSO and SVR operational groups, already on the island, will provide them with weapons, communications, and precise intelligence. They will operate covertly, delivering surgical, painful strikes against the command structure and supply lines."

  He paused, and his voice grew firmer.

  "The people of Altaras must reclaim their kingdom with their own hands. This is their war. Our task is to provide them with substantial but overwhelming assistance. To ensure their absolute air superiority and total fire support. Yes, in practice, things will go less smoothly than on paper. There will be losses. There will be chaos. But Russian aviation, in accordance with the plan, will support with fire any manifestation of their will to be free and will show this entire world what happens to those who consider genocide and slavery the norm."

  Preparations for Operation "Retribution" proceeded at an accelerated pace. From the National Defense Management Center, encrypted orders flew out over secure communication channels to all corners of the country. At airbases in Crimea and southern Russia, technicians worked around the clock to prepare squadrons of Ту-95МС strategic bombers and Su-34 strike fighters for departure. In the ports of Sevastopol and Novorossiysk, marine infantry units and equipment were being loaded onto large landing ships. The entire gigantic military machine of the Russian Federation, from the satellites in orbit to the Spetsnaz in the forests of Altaras, was set in motion, preparing to deliver a single, swift, and absolutely devastating blow. The fate of not just a kingdom—but the entire Parpaldia Empire — had been sealed.