The Parpaldia Empire. The majestic capital of Esthirant.

  The magnificent capital of the Empire, Esthirant, stood as it always had, reveling in its own riches. The city, like a dragon jealously guarding its hoard, absorbed the glittering light of gold and the cold gleam of jewels. It was not only a symbol of imperial power but also a living monument to its boundless arrogance. Every palace, every building in its aristocratic quarters was draped in a luxury capable of satisfying the most depraved whims of the nobility, generously filling the pockets of the emperor, lords, and dukes. Gold dust was caked beneath their fingernails, and in their veins, they believed, flowed a special, divinely chosen blood.

  But one needed only to lower one's gaze from the shining spires and gilded roofs to the foot of this golden world to see another, truer reality. Here, in the foul, perpetually damp alleys, the common folk scurried—slaves and vassals, left with nothing but a wretched, almost animalistic existence, barely enough to make ends meet. The insatiable thirst of the elite for wealth and power distorted reality, turning millions of people into an invisible, silent retinue, condemned to poverty.

  Lord Elto, head of the First Department, sat in his immaculate, dark silk-lined office, numbly, almost mechanically, rubbing his temples after reviewing the latest report. His entire demeanor spoke of a suppressed, almost apathetic state that had taken hold of him. The report was from the port chancellery—dry, emotionless lines informing him that the flow of citizens from the Republic of Mu, the world's second most powerful superpower, had been abruptly cut off. Due to the political tensions caused by the declaration of the "Great Purification," the government of Mu had suspended all its trade and diplomatic ties with the Empire, urgently ordering its subjects to leave Esthirant immediately, while they still had the chance.

  "How could this be…" a whisper escaped Elto's lips, and, leaning back in his massive armchair, he weakly dropped the heavy parchment scroll onto the desk. He scanned the calligraphic, yet no less cruel, lines again and again. "…due to the unforeseen escalation of the military-political situation… the Government of the Republic of Mu strongly advises all its citizens to immediately depart the territory of the Parpaldia Empire…" Grim, almost funereal thoughts took hold of his mind. The Lord closed his eyes, trying to hide from the cold, clear picture that was unfolding in his mind.

  This was not just a diplomatic protest. This was a verdict. Mu, the pragmatic, cynical, and cautious traders who had built their policy on balance and profit for centuries, never made rash moves. They were like rats on a ship—always the first to sense a leak. And now, they weren't just fleeing. They were demonstratively, in front of the whole world, launching the lifeboats, making it clear: this ship, called the Parpaldia Empire, had already been holed below the waterline and was about to go down.

  Elto was not a general; he was a diplomat. His weapons were not cannons, but words, intrigues, and a deep understanding of the enemy's psychology. And he, unlike Arde and Remille, understood perfectly the monstrousness of their mistake. They had plunged into a war without even conducting elementary reconnaissance. They had declared a "Purification" against a people whose real strength they did not know. And now, they were reaping the consequences. This outcome had been predictable. But that made it no less terrifying.

  Worrying for his subjects and aware that the Empire's future was hanging by a thread, Elto tried to force himself to concentrate on the protocol for the upcoming meeting. In an hour, the ambassador of Mu, Mugei, was due to arrive here, in his office. This man could, perhaps, shed some light on the true motives of his government.

  "Has Mu truly decided to go to war with us?" he said aloud now, his voice firmer, trying to frame his fear as a logical question. "Because of these Russian barbarians? To challenge us for them? This is madness…"

  The news of the flight of Mu's citizens had undoubtedly reached Remille by now. Elto pictured her, upon receiving this news, smashing her luxurious office to pieces. Her rage would be like a storm. And this storm was about to break over the head of the unfortunate Ambassador Mugei.

  With a heavy heart, Elto began to prepare for the meeting. He knew his role would be unenviable. Remille, as always, would seize the initiative. She would turn diplomatic negotiations into a tribunal, where she was prosecutor, judge, and executioner all in one. And he, Elto, would be merely a silent witness, an extra in her theater of cruelty. "Sometimes she takes on too much," he thought with bitterness. This time, her arrogance and fury could finally push them all over the edge. He looked out the tall, lancet window as a gust of wind rustled the heavy velvet curtains, and he felt the entire weight of the impending conversation, the entire responsibility for its inevitably catastrophic consequences, settle on his shoulders. He had to do something. But what could he oppose to the will of death itself, in the form of Lady Remille? He was merely an experienced bureaucrat, and she was the embodiment of the imperial will, mad and unbreakable.

  One hour later. Palace of the First Department of Foreign Affairs. The Council Chamber.

  The chamber was filled with a tense anticipation. The majestic walls, paneled in dark, almost black oak and crowned with massive, gilt-framed paintings of naval battles, reflected the cold light of the winter sun streaming through the tall, lancet windows. The air was heavy, saturated with the aroma of wax and old paper. The heads of departments seated around the long, polished mahogany table were silent, lost in their thoughts. Presiding over the meeting were the head of the First Department, Lord Elto, and the head of the Audit Service, Her Imperial Highness Remille. Her presence was felt like a cold wind, despite her seemingly relaxed posture.

  Time dragged on with agonizing slowness. Finally, as the hands of the massive grandfather clock converged on the appointed hour, the officially dispassionate voice of an attaché announced:

  "The ambassador of the superpower of Mu, Mister Mugei, has arrived!"

  The heavy, velvet-upholstered door slowly swung open. Mugei entered the chamber smoothly. His movements were measured, his face calm, but behind the eyes of the seasoned diplomat hid a sharp, analytical mind. He gave a restrained greeting to those present, and as he walked to his seat, his brain was already processing thousands of details: the tense postures of the ministers, Elto's empty, hunted gaze, and most importantly, the almost physically palpable aura of hatred emanating from Remille. He already understood: this would not be a conversation. This would be an interrogation.

  He had been summoned under the pretext of discussing "trade quotas," but Mugei knew perfectly well the real reason—his government's order for the emergency evacuation of Mu's citizens. It was an unprecedented, almost insulting move towards Parpaldia, one that directly implied: Mu did not believe in its victory. And now, he, the ambassador, had to explain this move in a way that wouldn't provoke these madmen into immediate aggression.

  "Well then, let us begin our meeting," Remille said, and her icy voice made everyone in the room flinch. "As you know, our Empire is in a state of war with the so-called Russian Federation. What is the official reaction of your government to this… situation, Mister Mugei?"

  Remille looked at the ambassador, and in her cold eyes, there was nothing but contempt and a barely contained anticipation—not for an answer, but for a reason to accuse.

  "The reaction of my government, Your Imperial Highness, is one of extreme concern," Mugei began, his voice perfectly calm and measured. He chose each word with care. "We believe that the war unleashed between your great power and the Russian Federation could escalate into an extremely brutal and destructive conflict. In light of this, due to the potential threat of an attack on your capital and other major cities, the government of Mu, concerned for the safety of its subjects, has decided on their temporary evacuation."

  These words made Remille tense up. Her face darkened, and an icy, venomous smirk touched her lips.

  "Do you take us for fools, Mr. Ambassador? Let's dispense with these diplomatic pleasantries. We have studied the reports on the battle that took place in Altaras. We have eyewitness accounts of the Russians using mechanical flying apparatuses."

  Mugei tilted his head to the side with genuine puzzlement.

  "I beg your pardon, Your Imperial Highness, but unfortunately, I fail to see the connection. What are you driving at?"

  Her gaze grew sharp as a dagger, and her voice, previously cold, now seethed with a churning fury.

  "Oh, you don't understand?!" Remille's face twisted in disgust. "Fine, I will explain it for the particularly dim-witted. I repeat: we have evidence that the Russians used mechanical airplanes. And the only country in this world that produces them is yours. But the most interesting part: the very same apparatuses that you sell to no one, by some miracle, ended up in the hands of these barbarians! And immediately after that, you begin a total evacuation of your citizens!" She abruptly shot to her feet, her restrained anger finally bursting forth. "I'm asking you directly, Ambassador! Why did your government sell weapons to these Russian savages?! Did you decide to wage war against our Empire using their hands?! ANSWER ME!"

  Mugei let out a restrained, almost inaudible sigh. He understood: what he was facing was not just anger, but a wall of arrogance and stubborn ignorance. He calmly looked directly into Remille's burning, furious eyes.

  "Your Imperial Highness, I implore you to calm yourself. This is a terrible, tragic misunderstanding. As the official representative of the superpower of Mu, I state with full responsibility: we have not exported any weapons to the Russian Federation. On the contrary, their technology so far surpasses our own that we ourselves are considering requesting technical assistance from them."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Upon hearing this, Remille burst into laughter. It was a short, sharp, hysterical laugh.

  "Are you telling me that some barbarian country from the Uncivilized Lands surpasses not only us, but also you?! The second most powerful superpower in the world?! Ambassador, your lie is clumsy and insulting."

  But then Mugei did something no one expected. He stopped making excuses.

  "Russia," he said with a heavy sigh, "is a transferred country. From another world. Did you not know this?"

  These words made Remille stiffen. She froze, and in her memory, like a forgotten nightmare, resurfaced that strange, absurd report from the Third Department that she had once read but dismissed as the ravings of a madman.

  "Transferred from another world…" Remille forced the words out, almost syllable by syllable. "You… you actually believe in these fairy tales?"

  Mugei nodded gravely, his gaze filled with unwavering conviction.

  "Of course. Because twelve thousand years ago, our country was also transferred. From the very same world from which the Russian Federation came. In that world, on Earth, was our ancient ally—the Yamato Empire, which, according to the Russian diplomats, was later called Japan. And we were known as the lost continent of Mu. To them, we are a legend. And to us, they are the missing link in our own history."

  Without another word, Mugei took a stack of glossy, colored photographs from his briefcase and carefully laid them out on the polished surface of the table. It was his final, irrefutable argument. An argument against which any words were powerless.

  "Look," Mugei said, pointing to the first photograph. In it, next to the elegant but already archaic-looking Mu "Marin" fighter, stood the predatory, angular silhouette of a Russian MiG-35. "This is their combat aircraft. And this is ours. Our planes have propellers. The Russians' do not. Their machines are capable of breaking the sound barrier. Our technology is too far behind for us to create anything similar. We could not have sold them anything."

  Then Mugei laid out more photographs. On them, like pictures from another, impossible world, were the night-lit skyscrapers of Moscow, multi-level traffic interchanges with streams of cars, and enormous, whale-like civilian airliners at an airport.

  The entire hall, motionless, stared at the images. The faces of the aristocrats, generals, and ministers slowly grew pale. A heavy, oppressive silence hung in the room.

  "Whether it's civilian or military technology," Mugei continued with a cold but confident tone, "they surpass us by orders of magnitude. Even the Holy Mirishial Empire, with all its magic, likely does not reach their level. This is the country to which you have declared a 'Purification.' But now, you should consider whether the purification might not begin in the opposite direction."

  He paused, giving them time to process his words.

  "That is why my government decided to evacuate our citizens. We expect your capital to be turned into ruins. I will be leaving Esthirant soon and will only return after this war is over. I will pray that we have the fortune to meet again."

  "Does that conclude our meeting, Lady Remille?" he asked politely, but now as an equal.

  Remille, snapping out of her stupor, managed to say with difficulty, in a restrained voice:

  "…Yes. You may go, Mr. Ambassador." She nodded, and in her eyes, for the first time in a long while, instead of fury, there was a cold, cloying fear.

  Mugei, bowing, turned and, accompanied by his aides, left the chamber. He departed, leaving behind not just shock. He left behind the icy, paralyzing terror of realization. The high officials of the Parpaldia Empire, the heirs of great conquerors, for the first time in their lives, felt like savages with spears facing an incomprehensible, all-crushing, and merciless force.

  The delegation from Mu, after a final bow, silently exited the council chamber. The moment the heavy oak door closed behind them, the dead silence that had hung in the hall exploded. As often happens after shocking revelations, pent-up emotions burst forth. The heads of departments, generals, and councilors, leaping from their seats, began to shout, interrupting one another. Their cries, full of fear, disbelief, and fury, merged into a single, insane clamor.

  "CEASE THIS RACKET! SILENCE THIS BAZAAR AT ONCE!" Remille shrieked, her voice almost ultrasonic. She slammed her fist on the table with such force that the carved oak cracked.

  Everyone fell silent instantly. A few men, already on the verge of grabbing each other by the collars, shamefully straightened their clothes.

  "I need to discuss this with Lord Elto. Alone. EVERYONE OUT!" she hissed, pointing at the door.

  The attendees, not daring to object, hastily, almost backing away, left the hall. Silence returned to the room, but now it was as heavy as a gravestone. Remille, left alone with Elto, lost all of her outward control. She collapsed into her chair and, burying her fingers in her silver-ash hair, let out a low, strangled moan, like the death rattle of a wounded beast.

  "What have I done…" the thought, like a red-hot nail, drove into her brain. "I… I declared a 'Purification' on them. A genocide. On a country that… that can wipe us from the face of the earth..."

  Mugei's words, his calm, almost pitying gaze, his photographs from another world—all of it now swirled in her head like a nightmarish kaleidoscope. "If he wasn't lying… if all of that is true… I… I have just signed the death warrant not only for myself. I have signed it for the entire Empire. With my own hands."

  She closed her eyes, trying to hold back the rising tears. But they flowed anyway, burning her cheeks, mingling with the realization of a monstrous, irreparable mistake. Her mouth went dry.

  "What do I do now?! How could I have been so wrong?! I… the great Remille… have I been nothing but a foolish, arrogant little girl?!"

  "Your Imperial Highness," Elto's voice broke the silence. His presence, his calm, rational tone, was almost physically palpable now, like a hand trying to pull Remille from the abyss of madness. "All is not lost. If the ambassador is right, and they are truly that powerful, we need to take countermeasures urgently. Rescind the 'Purification' order, immediately. Open channels for negotiations. Yes, it would have been better for Mu to wage a proxy war against us through Russia than to find ourselves in a situation where these Russians act directly and with such a cause for revenge."

  And then Remille began to laugh. It wasn't laughter. It was a sharp, hysterical, almost insane cackle that filled the room with a strange, frightening atmosphere.

  "Hahaha! The absolute worst, most absurd possible outcome! Just perfect!" she laughed so hard that Elto involuntarily recoiled. And then her laughter broke off, replaced by deep, convulsive sobs. She buried her face in her hands, and her body shook.

  "Your Imperial Highness?!" Elto was stunned. He had never seen her like this. Broken.

  Remille felt something inside her crack and shatter, as if struck by lightning. The unbreakable wall of pride, arrogance, and faith in her own infallibility, which she had built for years, had collapsed, burying her under its rubble.

  "I can't believe it… How could I not have seen it?" her words were barely audible through her tears. "I believed in the absolute might of the Empire, and now… everything I've done… every decision I've made could lead us to ruin. If they, these Russians, had shown their true strength just once, I would have thought a thousand times before attacking someone who can devour you without leaving even the bones. But they were silent. They were patient. They allowed me to make this mistake… What's done is done. You can't turn back time."

  It wasn't just fear that gripped her. It was the terror of realization. She, who had considered herself a great strategist, had been nothing but a pawn in someone else's strange and terrible game. And she had just made a move that led directly to checkmate.

  In Moscow, in the classified situation center of the General Staff of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation, there was an atmosphere of cold, almost sterile concentration. There was no place for emotions here. Only dry facts, accurate calculations and the icy logic of war. On the giant interactive whiteboard, the map of the theater of military operations breathed as if alive.

  "The operation to liberate and stabilize the situation in the Kingdom of Altaras has been successfully completed," the Chief of the Main Operational Directorate reported in a monotone, his laser pointer gliding across the map. "A beachhead has been established. The Ruvile airfield is fully under our control and is already receiving heavy transport aircraft."

  Icons flashed on the map. Su-34M fighter-bombers, multirole MiG-35s, A-100 "Premier" AWACS aircraft—the full might of the Russian Aerospace Forces' tactical aviation was now based just an hour's flight from the enemy's capital.

  "According to data from the Space Intelligence Center," the general continued, "the enemy, in their medieval naivety, has made a fatal error. They are concentrating their main forces in three gigantic military camps. Of particular interest to us is the capital's defense base north of Esthirant."

  An image taken by a satellite in the thermal spectrum appeared on the map. A huge, bright red, pulsating blotch.

  "They're packed in there like sardines in a can. Barracks, depots, vehicle parks—all in one place. The highest concentration of manpower and materiel. A perfect target."

  The generals and admirals present in the hall nodded silently. Their faces were inscrutable. This wasn't war. This was a surgical operation. And the patient was already on the operating table, unaware that the scalpel had already been raised.

  "No delays," the Commander-in-Chief of the Aerospace Forces stated crisply in his report. "This is our number one priority. Its destruction will decapitate their army and leave the capital defenseless."

  The next target, highlighted on the map, was the enemy's giant military fleet, anchored in the southern port of Esthirant. The ships were arranged in a dense, almost parade-like formation, and their numbers were impressive. Even by World War I standards, such an armada could have caused serious concern.

  "Their fleet," the Commander-in-Chief of the Navy continued, "must be neutralized. Completely. This will ensure our absolute maritime supremacy and allow us to supply our forces unhindered."

  The third target, glowing crimson, was Parpaldia's industrial base. Intelligence had confirmed: the city of Duro, located on the eastern coast, was the heart of their military industry. The destruction of this city would be a devastating blow to their ability to wage war.

  "The plan is clear," the Chief of the General Staff summarized. "The destruction of these three targets—the base, the fleet, and the industry—will disorganize the enemy, strip them of their will to resist, and deny them key resources. We must act decisively, quickly, and ruthlessly."

  The discussion continued. Specialists considered all possible options, calculating the risks. The General Staff knew: victory over Parpaldia would be achieved not on the battlefield, but with strikes against its nerve centers.

  As soon as the meeting concluded, Russia's gigantic military machine sprang into motion. Coded orders flew to airbases and naval headquarters. At airfields from Crimea to the Far East, a feverish but clockwork-perfect preparation began. Tu-160 "White Swan" and Tu-95MS bombers were slowly rolled out of their hangars, and cruise missiles were mounted beneath their wings. In the port of Sevastopol, marines were loaded onto landing ships. Operation "Retribution" had begun. And this new, unsuspecting world held its breath before the storm that was about to break.