The Fenn Kingdom. The Capital, Amanoki.

  "It feels like we've stepped onto the set of a Kurosawa film," Alexey Vishnevsky, Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the Russian Federation, said quietly, almost in a whisper. He was standing at the wide window of the audience hall, looking down at the city spread below.

  Magnificent temples with curved roofs, austere, ascetic houses surrounded by rock gardens, and people in traditional clothing moving through the streets with a kind of innate, unhurried grace. The air was saturated with the scent of blooming cherry blossoms, their delicate pink petals slowly twirling in the air, settling on the perfectly paved stone paths. All of this created an atmosphere of unreality, of an almost mystical tranquility.

  "You can say that again," the military attaché, Colonel Gruzdev, replied to him in perfect Japanese. Unlike the ambassador, he was not admiring the landscape. His trained eye was picking out details: the guards at the gates, their hands resting confidently on the hilts of their katanas, the perfectly calculated geometry of the streets, which would allow for an organized defense… and the samurai. Warriors whose aura of strength and deadly danger was almost palpable. The corners of his lips twitched almost imperceptibly as one of them, with an incredible, fluid grace, walked past, his every movement economical.

  Suddenly, a paper screen—a shoji—slid silently aside, and a middle-aged man with a shaved head and a neat goatee entered the hall. He was robed in a ceremonial haori, artfully embroidered with golden and silver cranes. His hand rested calmly on the hilt of his katana. The man's piercing, appraising gaze instantly found the Russian diplomats.

  "My apologies for the wait, esteemed envoys," he said in their language, with a barely perceptible but pleasant-sounding accent. His voice was calm, but there was a hidden strength in it. "The Sword King, Shihan, is ready to receive you."

  With him, two others entered the room—his aides, members of the Ten Great Swords. All three moved with such a restrained power that their presence seemed to fill the entire space.

  King Shihan, inclining his head slightly in a formal greeting, sat down on a cushion opposite the diplomats. His eyes were as dark and as deep as a night sky, and on his face was a fixed, unreadable mask that concealed all emotion.

  "I am pleased to welcome the envoys of the great and enigmatic Russian Federation to the land of Fenn," he said, and to the ambassador's surprise, there was a note of sincere respect in his voice. He already knew about them. He knew enough not to make any rash judgments.

  Alexey Vishnevsky, in turn, leaned forward slightly. His gestures were impeccably polite and calculated. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible signal to the attaché, who, as if on cue, took several gifts from a leather case and neatly arranged them on the low table.

  "We have come in peace and with respect for your traditions, Your Majesty. Please accept these humble gifts as a token of our good intentions," the ambassador said.

  The gifts had been chosen with the utmost care, calculated to produce both a cultural shock and a demonstration of their capabilities. High-tech sneakers from a well-known Russian brand—as light as a feather, with a shock-absorbing sole. A real Cossack shashka in a presentation scabbard, its blade forged from a modern steel that surpassed in quality anything known in this world. A necklace of perfectly round, large river pearls. An athletic jacket with the coat of arms of Russia—a symbol of sporting, not military, victories. And finally, the main "argument"—a heavy, ornate bottle of the best export-grade vodka in a presentation wooden box.

  Shihan, without losing his regal composure, surveyed the offered gifts with interest. A flicker of a light, almost childlike curiosity crossed his face as he picked up the sneakers. His eyebrows rose slightly as he assessed their weight and flexibility.

  "Oh! What unusual footwear. Light and… springy." He squeezed the sole, and for the first time, a look of genuine surprise appeared on his face. He tried them on, took a few steps, and gave a satisfied grunt. "Quite impressive. I am pleasantly surprised."

  Then his gaze came to rest on the bottle. It was not just a container of alcohol. It was a work of art. Heavy glass, an intricate shape, a golden engraving of a double-headed eagle, and a perfectly made stopper. He slowly took it in his hands and examined it closely.

  "And what is this… water?" he asked, and in his voice, in addition to interest, there was a note of caution.

  The Russian ambassador, noticing the Sword King's intent gaze, gave a restrained smile.

  "That is our national drink, Your Majesty. The spirit of our land, if you will. In some ways, it is similar to your saké, but… let us just say it has a more direct character."

  Intrigued, Shihan carefully removed the heavy, fitted stopper. A sharp, unfamiliar, almost aggressive smell hit him, making him wince for a moment. Without showing his surprise, he poured the clear, tear-like liquid into his porcelain sakazuki cup. He raised it to his lips, took a small, tentative sip… and his eyes widened.

  He felt a burning, but pure, fire sear his throat and spread rapidly through his body, down to his very fingertips. It was not intoxication. It was a flash. Powerful, sharp, and inexorable. He took another, more confident sip, and the fire within him flared with a new strength. This drink did not relax. It mobilized, it clarified the mind, it demanded action.

  "Oh…" Shihan breathed, and on his impassive face, for the first time in a long while, was a look of genuine, almost boyish surprise. He felt the heat spreading through his veins, his gaze growing even sharper. "This… this is nothing like saké." He smirked.

  "Saké is softness, it is harmony, it is contemplation… But this…", he paused, searching for the words, "...this is like the blow of a war hammer. Like the very essence of untamable power." "I thought I was prepared for anything… but even their drink shatters all my preconceptions," the thought flashed through his mind.

  The other members of his council were also examining the gifts with curiosity. One of them, a female warrior with long hair tied in a tight knot and wearing a formal combat kimono, gracefully picked up the string of pearls. For a moment, her stern face softened.

  "Gods… they are flawless! Every pearl is perfectly formed. How… how is that even possible?" she said in an awed whisper.

  Another, an elderly master of the sword with a gray mustache, ironically picked up the bright athletic jacket, on which the coat of arms of Russia was emblazoned. He turned it over, smirking as he assessed the strange cut and the unfamiliar fabric. The combination of the ancient, feudal aesthetic and this modern object was absurd, but the old warrior felt not mockery, but respect for a culture that was capable of creating such practical things.

  But Shihan's own gaze was fixed on the Cossack shashka. Slowly, with an almost ritualistic care, he drew the blade from its scabbard. The steel gleamed dully in the semi-darkness of the hall. He raised it, assessing its balance, its lightness, its deadly grace. His fingers ran along the edge, which was as sharp as a razor. In his eyes, the eyes of the greatest swordsman in this world, the fire of a professional's admiration was lit. This was not just a good blade. It was perfect.

  "The rumors of a country capable of creating such a weapon were not lies," he thought, raising his piercing gaze to the diplomats. "The abundance and the quality of your gifts speak more of the skill of your people than any words could. Any trading nation would consider it an honor to do business with you."

  He paused, allowing his words to hang in the air, giving them weight. Then, setting the shashka aside, he looked the Russian ambassador directly in the eye.

  "And the Fenn Kingdom would like to be the first of such nations. We are prepared to establish diplomatic relations with the Russian Federation."

  The Russian diplomats exchanged quick, almost imperceptible glances. They had been expecting a long process of bargaining, of tricks, of Eastern cunning. But the Sword King was as direct as the strike of his own blade. Ambassador Vishnevsky, noticing a faint, almost predatory smirk on Shihan's face, allowed himself a restrained smile in return. He was already preparing to formally confirm their agreement when…

  "Wait, honored envoy!" Shihan's voice, which had been even and calm, suddenly took on a metallic hardness and authority. He cut the diplomat off before he could even finish his sentence. "Words are wind. Treaties are parchment that burns in the fire of war. Before our peoples bind themselves by an alliance, we would like to see for ourselves the might of your legendary iron fortresses."

  The ambassador raised an eyebrow slightly, his face remaining completely impassive, but inwardly, he tensed. He sensed that the game was moving to a new level.

  "You wish to see a demonstration of the military might of our fleet, Your Majesty?" he clarified, his tone impeccably polite.

  "Precisely," Shihan replied curtly. He leaned forward, and his dark eyes seemed to look directly into the ambassador's soul. "You see, Ambassador, we are a people of warriors. To truly believe in the strength of an ally, we must see it with our own eyes. We have four old, decommissioned warships in our harbor. I want your… ships… to treat them as the enemy. And to sink them. Do you agree?"

  A tense silence fell upon the room. The proposal was a bold one. It was not just a request. It was a challenge. A test. The Russian ambassador thought for a moment, weighing all the risks and possible consequences. A refusal would be seen as a weakness. An excessive demonstration of force, as a threat. He had to find the perfect balance. He glanced at Colonel Gruzdev. The man gave a slight, almost imperceptible, nod.

  "Yes, Your Majesty. Your wish will be granted," the ambassador replied, his voice even and devoid of all emotion.

  A shadow of a smile appeared once more on Shihan's face.

  "Excellent! When can we begin the performance?"

  "We must choose a time and a safe location for the demonstration that is convenient for everyone. Our specialists will contact your people to coordinate all the technical details," Vishnevsky replied just as calmly.

  "Of course," Shihan waved a casual hand in the direction of his councilors. Understanding the silent command, they bowed respectfully and silently left the hall. Shihan watched them go, and then turned back to the diplomats. His tone once again became hospitable and warm. "And so, the official part of our meeting is concluded. I ask that you be my personal guests in this palace."

  "We are deeply moved by your hospitality, Your Majesty," Alexey Vishnevsky and Colonel Gruzdev bowed their heads in unison, with respect.

  They understood that they had passed this strange, almost barbaric, yet so very understandable, test. And now the most difficult stage was beginning—the building of a bridge of trust between two such different, yet in their essence so similar, nations.

  When the Russian Federation found itself in this new world—the scientists from the Platinum Road and the secure research institutes of Rosatom still could not agree on what it was: another world, a parallel universe, or another dimension with altered physical constants—chaos ensued. Not just the chaos of rallies and riots. But a viscous, suffocating, paralyzing collapse that seemed on the verge of swallowing the country whole, dissolving it into anarchy and civil war. It was the agony of a civilization whose every nerve ending had been severed in a single stroke.

  The first few days were a nightmare, woven from darkness and silence. Electricity, the internet, mobile and satellite communications—the entire digital nervous system upon which a modern state depended—had collapsed like a house of cards under the blow of an unseen force. Millions of people, trapped in their concrete boxes in high-rise buildings, suddenly found themselves in a total information blackout, alone with their darkest fears. In the darkness of their apartments and on the unlit streets, the only sources of news were panicked rumors and conjectures, passed in whispers from neighbor to neighbor. Then, as the country's power grid, operating on emergency protocols and at the limit of its capabilities, slowly began to be restored, a second, even more terrifying wave of horror washed over the nation—realization. The satellites were silent. The GLONASS signals were not responding. The transoceanic cables that connected Russia to the rest of the world were dead. On every frequency—from civilian to military—there was only a void, broken by the quiet, sinister hiss of static. Russia was alone. Utterly alone, in a silent cosmic emptiness.

  The streets of the cities, which had been paralyzed by fear, exploded. A week of non-stop rallies, in which a bewildered populace demanded answers from the authorities, quickly escalated into brutal, senseless pogroms. The factories and plants, which had stopped their work due to the rupture of logistical and production chains, became arenas for clashes. The people, who in a single stroke had lost their jobs, their savings, their hopes, and all meaning in their existence, in a blind rage, destroyed everything around them—shop windows, cars, monuments—as if trying to physically shatter the very reality that had betrayed them. Out of nowhere, like mushrooms after a toxic rain, apocalyptic sects and radical groups sprang up, armed to the teeth with weapons stolen from looted army depots. Their preachers, with a mad fire in their eyes, screamed from makeshift platforms about the End of the World, took officials hostage, and demanded that the government "put everything back the way it was," threatening to blow up nuclear power plants.

  But the state apparatus, having survived the initial paralytic shock, began to act. Harshly, swiftly, and ruthlessly, like a surgeon cutting out gangrene. By order from the Kremlin, units of the Rosgvardiya (National Guard) and the Internal Troops were sent into the largest cities—the four capitals and the industrial centers. They did not mince words with looters, rioters, or armed gangs. After several demonstratively brutal crackdowns, in which live ammunition, not rubber batons, was used, the chaos in the streets began to subside. The most radical sects and groups were declared terrorist organizations. The best forces were thrown against them—the Federal Security Service (FSB) spetsnaz units "Alpha" and "Vympel," the SOBR, and detachments of the Special Operations Forces. Swift and bloody assaults on their bases followed, along with the elimination of their leaders and the complete destruction of their structures. The state was reminding its people that, despite the collapse of the outside world, within the country, it still held the monopoly on violence.

  Two weeks later, when the last of the fires had died down and the streets had been cleared of barricades and burned-out vehicles, President Mikhail Viktorovich Romanov addressed the nation. He stood in his Kremlin office, weary, with deep shadows under his eyes, but there was steel in his gaze. He made no empty promises. He did not say that the scientists were on the verge of fixing everything and finding a way home. He told the truth, without embellishment or false hope.

  "We do not know where we are. We do not know how to get back, and it is most likely impossible." His voice, devoid of all political rhetoric, sounded paternally stern and direct. "But we know one thing. We are here. Two hundred million citizens of Russia. And we are the only thing we have left. Our country, our army, our science, our shared history. Either we will unite as never before and we will survive. Or we will continue to tear each other's throats out over a piece of bread or old grievances, and then we will be devoured by whoever lives beyond our new borders. And there is someone out there, you can be sure of it."

  This honest, almost brutal, directness worked better than any promises or slogans. It was sobering. It gave the people a new enemy—not their neighbor, not the government, but the unknown that lay beyond their threshold. And it gave them a new goal—survival. The nation, which had been standing on the edge of an abyss, took a step back. People began to return to their workplaces. Workers, to the factories. Engineers, to the design bureaus. Teachers, to the schools. Creaking and stumbling, industry, the army, the entire country began to slowly but surely recover, restoring the broken connections and rebuilding their world anew.

  It was into this new, strange Moscow, still bearing the scars of the recent upheavals, that the first ambassadors began to arrive a year later. The buildings of the empty embassies—American, British, German—were now occupied by delegates from the Principality of Qua-Toyne, the Quila Kingdom, and the newly formed duchies that had arisen on the ruins of Louria. With a mixture of apprehension and awe, they walked the wide avenues of Moscow, looking at the scars from bullets and shrapnel on the granite walls of the buildings and at the grim but determined and calmly powerful faces of the people. They had expected to see a nation of victors, drunk on their easy victory over Louria. But they saw something else, and something far more frightening. They did not see a broken nation. They saw a nation that had just survived its own apocalypse, had stared into the face of oblivion, and had emerged from that struggle even more fierce, more united, and more powerful. And the officers of the FSB from the counter-intelligence directorate, never taking their invisible eyes off them, watched with a professional calm, to ensure that these new, naive guests from the Middle Ages did not interfere in matters that were of absolutely no concern to them.

  Crimea. The restaurant for special delegations, "Tsargrad."

  The air in the private lobby of the restaurant was cool and filled with subtle, complex aromas—the smoke of expensive cigars from the continent of Mu, notes of Crimean Muscat wine, and the rich scent of roasted meat. The restaurant "Tsargrad," specially created by the Presidential Affairs Administration for receiving guests from the New World, was a living embodiment of Russian soft power. There was no gaudy gilding or barbaric luxury here. Instead, there were high ceilings with Empire-style moldings, walls paneled in dark Karelian oak, and heavy velvet drapes that completely cut off the noise of the city. In the center of the hall, a small marble fountain murmured quietly, and from hidden speakers, the unobtrusive, soothing classical music of Tchaikovsky flowed. Every detail, from the perfectly polished silver on the tables to the impeccable training of the waiters, said one thing to the guests: you are in the center of a mighty and ancient civilization.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  At one of the tables, in deep leather armchairs, the diplomatic mission of the Sios Kingdom was seated.

  "I believe the question of security guarantees for the Fenn Kingdom has already been resolved," said an elf with long, silver hair gathered in an intricate braid. This was Lord Lianor, the mission's chief strategic advisor. He slowly brought a thick cigar, a marvel delivered by the trade routes of Mu, to his lips and took a light puff. He held the smoke in his mouth, as if savoring a complex political position, before exhaling it in a relaxed, bluish ring. "I observed their Victory Parade and have studied the reports on the slaughter at Gim. I can assure you, gentlemen, there is no longer any power in this world comparable to the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation. To them, the fleet of Parpaldia is nothing more than an unfortunate nuisance."

  "I agree…" his companion rumbled. This was Vargas, a beastman of the lion clan, whose thick red mane was neatly combed back. A three-piece suit, custom-tailored in a Moscow atelier, fit his massive frame perfectly. With visible pleasure, he cut a piece from an enormous, bloody steak of Siberian beef, put it in his mouth, and, closing his eyes, slowly chewed. "Power begets respect. And such power begets fear. And that is good for business."

  "It is precisely this fear that worries me," interjected the third diplomat, Minister Eldrin, a man with fine, aristocratic features. He took a small sip of dark ruby wine from a tall glass. "Parpaldia is a proud and predatory empire. They also have their sights on Fenn, and on the rich mines of Altaras. I can confidently predict that if the rulers of those kingdoms are not careful in their dealings with the imperial ambassadors, their sovereignty and their resources will be under direct threat. When the interests of two such leviathans as the Russian Federation and the Parpaldia Empire intersect at a single point, war will be unavoidable."

  "So be it," the fourth member of the conversation smirked. This was Sir Matteo, the wealthiest merchant in Sios, whom the king had included in the delegation as an economic advisor. Unlike the others, he was dressed in a lavish, flamboyantly tailored doublet of the Renaissance era, the latest fashion in his own world. "The main thing is that our kingdom has already made its choice and is prospering in its trade relations with the Russians. Our treasury coffers have never been so full! The people are well-fed, taxes are being collected regularly, and the pirates are afraid to even approach our convoys when they see a Russian patrol ship nearby."

  "Of course, and why shouldn't our country grow rich?" Vargas supported him, finishing his meat. "We have always lived by trade. But now, our island kingdom has become the main trading crossroads between three worlds: the technological might of Russia, the agricultural wealth of Rodenius, and the resources of the continent of Phillades. We are the key to this region, and the Russians understand that perfectly."

  "Speaking of other keys," Eldrin set down his glass. "What do you know of the Topa Kingdom? I have heard rumors that the Russians are showing a particular interest in them."

  "Absolutely correct," Lianor nodded, tapping the ash from his cigar. "The Russian Federation has made the first move, and a very shrewd one at that. They did not demand or threaten. They sent a scientific delegation and officially contacted the royal house of Topa to establish diplomatic relations. The official reason is a 'joint scientific study of the fauna of the Northern Sea, for the harvesting of fish and other seafood.'"

  "'Seafood'?" Sir Matteo repeated in confusion, the word being new to him.

  "Yes," Vargas chuckled. "Crabs, lobsters, scallops, and other sea creatures, which the Russians, for some reason, value as if they were gold."

  "I have tried the crab that our merchants brought from the waters of Topa as a sample for the Russians," Vargas put in. "A delicacy, I tell you—finger-licking good." He caught the ironic glances of his colleagues and, as he thought, licked his lips imperceptibly.

  "They have sent delegations to all the key countries in our region," Lianor concluded. "With one exception. To the Parpaldia Empire, they have yet to send a single ambassador… They do not negotiate with those they do not respect. Or…" he paused and released one last ring of smoke, "...with those they have already added to their list of enemies."

  The Topa Kingdom. The fortress-city of Tormeus.

  They had ridden their horses without stopping, feeling neither the icy wind that cut at their faces nor the fatigue that had seized their muscles. Moah and Gai raced through the snow-covered forests and hills, and behind them, it was as if the very earth groaned under the tread of an unseen army. The hooves of their exhausted mounts kicked up swirls of snow dust, which settled like frost on their cloaks and manes. When at last the grim, time-blackened basalt walls of Tormeus appeared in the distance, they did not slow their pace. Bursting through the southern gate, past the stunned guards, they made their way, without wasting a second, straight to the citadel, to the commandant. The news they carried was heavier than lead, and under its weight, even the ancient stones of the fortress seemed to tremble.

  In the command hall, which was lit by the dim, flickering light of oil lamps, the commandant, an old, gray-haired warrior named Aziz, listened to them with a stone-faced expression. But when Moah, gasping for breath, had finished, his battle-forged composure cracked. Around the map table, his officers—veterans whose faces were etched with the scars of border skirmishes—were frozen. They stared at Moah and Gai, and in their eyes was a mixture of disbelief and a growing horror.

  "A twenty-thousand-strong army… if you can call it an army… is advancing along the southern borders," Moah reported, his voice hoarse with fatigue and from the long silence. "This is not just a horde. These are disciplined legions… High dark orcs, trolls, goblins, sir, with banners. Thousands of them. And… they are being led by… him..."

  The fortress commandant's face went pale. His gaze, full of alarm, swept over the faces of his officers, as if in a desperate attempt to find a refutation, to find some shred of hope.

  "High dark orcs…", he whispered, as if tasting the words from his worst nightmares. "But… they went extinct three thousand years ago! The legends… if this is true…"

  He did not finish. Everyone in the hall understood: if this was true, the Topa Kingdom was doomed. These were not the savage beasts their ancestors had held back at the wall for years. This was an organized, intelligent, and merciless war machine.

  Gai gripped the hilt of his sword more tightly. In his eyes, unlike the others, there was no fear. Only the cold, deadly rage of a man who had just stared into the maw of the abyss itself. He knew that their mission was not just a warning. It was the beginning of the end. And of their desperate struggle. Tormeus was the last fortress in the path of this darkness. If it fell, the entire country would drown in blood.

  At that very moment, the heavy oak door burst open with a crash. One of the long-range manacomm operators stumbled into the hall. His uniform was torn, his face covered in soot, and from the shattered communication crystal on his chest, the death rattles and the roars of demons could still be heard.

  "Commandant! Terrible news!" he cried out, his eyes wild with terror. "The Doors of the World… they have fallen! The entire garrison has been wiped out! The horde… the horde is already on the march here!"

  "What?... How?..." Aziz froze in place, grabbing the edge of the table. His breathing became ragged. "Wiped out?... Are you certain?"

  "The manacomm went silent a minute ago," the operator rasped, collapsing to his knees in a fit of coughing. "The last thing I heard... the screams of the wall commandant... He was shouting, 'For the Kingdom!'... and then... only roars and a cracking sound... The Doors are broken… the demons are coming. We have to prepare…"

  Aziz sighed heavily, closing his eyes. He pictured those brave men, left to be torn to pieces. His men. He turned to Gai and Moah, and in his gaze was a boundless gratitude, mixed with a bitter resignation.

  "Forgive me," his voice was full of a weary exhaustion. "You have done all you could. Go. Rest. And we… we will fight. There are five thousand of us here. The knights and the city militia. We will hold them until reinforcements arrive from the capital."

  He turned to another, surviving operator.

  "Relay a message to Berngen immediately! The Doors of the World have fallen! A demonic army, led by Nosgorath, is marching on Tormeus! We are requesting immediate assistance! The Royal Army must march at once! This is not just a threat to Topa; it is a threat to all of Phillades!"

  "Yes, sir!" the man replied, his voice full of a desperate urgency, and he rushed to his post.

  Commandant Aziz, gathering the last of his strength, walked to an old cabinet in the corner of the room. From it, he took a thick, dusty, leather-bound book. "The Chronicles of the Demon War." He slowly opened it and began to turn the yellowed, fragile pages. In his eyes was reflected a deep, cosmic sorrow, as if the shadows of long-dead heroes and forgotten battles had come to life once more before his mind's eye. He was searching for answers. He was searching for hope where there was none left. He was searching for any weakness, any tactic, any single word that could help them.

  "To think… and I, fool that I am, truly believed this cup would pass us by," the thought flashed through the commandant's mind with a bitter irony, as his calloused fingers finally found the right, time-yellowed page. In the ensuing silence, his voice, which had been commanding and loud, became hollow and almost reverent. He began to read aloud, and the half-forgotten words, like ghosts, filled the dusty air of the command hall. Gai and Moah listened, holding their breath, trying to catch in the ancient legend at least a glimmer of hope for salvation.

  "'And then the Messengers of the Supreme God, having descended from the heavens in their iron ships, drove the legions of demons back to the cursed lands of Grah-meyus. Together with the surviving warriors of men, dwarves, elves, and beastfolk, they erected an unbreakable wall—the Doors of the World. And after, having re-boarded their celestial ships, the Messengers departed through a spinning vortex of light, from which they had come, promising to return if the world were ever again threatened by darkness. But the threat remained. And so, the Alliance of the Races sent their finest warriors to put an end to the evil, once and for all. Against the Demon Lord Nosgorath himself stood the greatest heroes of that age: the human swordsman Ta Lou, the dwarven rune-smith Kiji, and the great elven mage Luca. At the cost of their own lives, pouring all their strength into a single great spell, they managed to seal the Demon Lord in the depths of an icy gorge. Only the fourth hero, the beastman Kenshiva, was fated to survive. He returned to pass on to future generations a final warning: the seal is not eternal. One day, Nosgorath will return. The end.'"

  Commandant Aziz slowly closed the heavy book. The dull thud of the leather binding on the oak table sounded in the dead silence of the command hall like the tolling of a funeral bell. In his gaze was reflected the full weight of the realization that the very moment their ancestors had feared for fifty centuries had arrived. What they, the children of a pragmatic age, had considered to be children's fairy tales, terrifying legends to frighten disobedient children, had suddenly taken on flesh, blood, and steel. It was no longer just a prophecy, carved in stone. It was their cruel, inescapable reality, which was, at this very moment, marching toward their walls, its steps shaking the earth.

  He raised his weary gaze to Gai and Moah. The two of them, the messengers who had brought death itself on the tips of their words, stood silently in the middle of the room. They understood everything. In the eyes of each of them—the rough mercenary and the noble half-elf knight—he saw the same thing: a grim, cold, steely readiness for battle. But behind this desperate resolve, behind the clenched fists and the gritted teeth, lay a quiet, bitter thought. The thought that this battle would, in all likelihood, be their last. And the last for everyone who was now within this ancient fortress.

  Moah was thinking of the captain, who had been left to die on the wall, of his final order, which now seemed even more weighty and terrible. Gai, for his part, was remembering the screams of the women and children in Tormeus when the alarm horn had sounded. He had fought for money, but today he understood that there were things that no amount of gold could buy. And those things were now behind him, in this doomed city.

  "But what about the Messengers?" one of the young officers suddenly asked, his voice trembling, as he grasped at the last, most fantastical straw. "The legend says… they promised to return…"

  Aziz looked at him with a heavy, paternal pity.

  "The legend says they promised," the commandant replied, his voice quiet but firm. "But it does not say when. We cannot wait for gods, Lieutenant. We must become our own wall. And our own legend."

  He straightened up, and the steel returned to his posture. Despair was gone, replaced by the cold resolve of a commander leading his men to their deaths.

  "Contact the capital again. Confirm receipt of the order. The Royal Army is already on the march. Our task is to buy them time. Every hour we can tear from this beast is hundreds of lives saved in the rear. We are the shield. And we will do our duty. To the end."

  The officers nodded silently. There was no hope. But there was duty. And that, as it turned out, was enough.

  Two long, agonizing days passed. Two days, during which the demon army, unhurriedly, with a monstrous, almost insulting casualness, crossed the scorched and desecrated distance from the fallen Doors of the World to the walls of Tormeus. When they made camp, the darkness seemed to physically thicken over the land, swallowing the light, the hope, and even the very air. The atmosphere filled with the nauseating stench of the sweat of thousands of unwashed bodies, of old blood, of filth, and of a primal, bestial madness.

  The demons set up their chaotic camp: they lit fires, using uprooted trees and the remains of the siege engines of the Doors' defenders as firewood. They divided the spoils—mangled armor, nicked weapons, and the personal effects of those they had killed. In their every movement, in every guttural, visceral roar, was a sinister, frenetic energy that made the very ground tremble beneath the fortress walls.

  On one of the boulder-strewn hills, a dark orc legionary—a creature in whose veins flowed the blood not only of a beast, but of a demon—sat directly on a pile of the bodies of goblins he had killed, noisily chewing a piece of raw meat torn from the thigh of some unfortunate animal.

  "Throk brogb, a izish gan lug?th dhaub." (I'm starving, and my gut aches again,) he rumbled from deep in his throat. He disgustedly rubbed his distended, almost pregnant belly, as if trying to soothe the gnawing internal pain that was the constant companion of his kind. His dark gray skin, caked with dried blood and filth, was stretched taut over lumpy, unnaturally developed muscles, and his small, evil eyes, set deep beneath a bony brow ridge, darted about, searching for new prey or amusement.

  "Nar brumg." (Stop your whining,) his companion, a huge, scarred orc veteran whose gray skin shone with a greasy sweat, grunted lazily in reply. Without a second thought, with a repulsive casualness, he grabbed a passing goblin by the scruff of its neck and, lifting it off the ground, began to use its frail, squirming body as a living back-scratcher for his own rust-plated back. The sharp edges of the armor scraped along the goblin's thin back, tearing the skin. The creature let out a thin squeal of pain and humiliation but endured it in silence, knowing that any sound could be its last.

  "Hey!" squeaked another goblin, who was standing nearby. He was slightly larger and apparently considered himself the leader of this small pack. But after catching the heavy, promising-a-slow-and-painful-death gaze of the orc, he only clenched his tiny, grimy fists and muttered under his breath, so quietly that only he could hear: "Thuk dzugh-dzugh!" (May you burst!)

  The orc, having finished scratching, disgustedly tossed the used goblin aside like a useless, bloodied rag. The creature, hitting a rock, crumpled but remained alive. The orc let out a loud, hearty belch, releasing a cloud of the stench of half-digested meat into the air.

  "A lbai plashnák ashbazg aps." (The elf-women still taste better,) he said with a sadistic smirk, baring his yellow, tusk-like teeth as he looked at his companion. For a moment, a glint of memory from a past slaughter flared in his eyes.

  The goblin, the one who had dared to object, spat on the ground in humiliation. A helpless rage boiled in his small, malevolent heart.

  "Ghrash grod." (Damned freak,) he hissed.

  He was sure the orc hadn't heard him. He was wrong.

  The orc, having heard him, slowly, with the laziness of a predator, turned its hideous head. There was no anger or rage on its face. Only a cold, almost scientific curiosity, like that of a child who is about to pull the wings off a fly. He unhurriedly raised his spiked, iron-banded club, which weighed more than the goblin itself.

  There was a dull, wet, squishing sound. And the goblin simply vanished, pulped into the ground, turning into a formless bloody stain from which shards of bone protruded.

  The second goblin, the one who had been used as a back-scratcher, froze, its small eyes wide with terror. It didn't dare to even breathe. The orc looked at it and, with a contemptuous laziness, waved a hand, as if shooing away a pesky insect.

  The goblin, not believing its luck, crawled away on all fours from this place where one could be killed simply out of boredom. This brutal, senseless scene, which had played out at the foot of the hill, was but a tiny, insignificant detail in the vast, monstrous picture of primal chaos that now stood at the very walls of Tormeus.

  While bestial chaos reigned outside in the camp, inside the vast tent, which resembled a cathedral of leather and bone and had been pitched for the Demon Lord, there was an unnatural, almost ringing silence. Crude torches made from orc fat sputtered, emitting a nauseatingly sweet smell that mingled with the ozonic crackle of concentrated magic. Their uneven light cast jerky, grotesque shadows on the walls of crudely tanned human skin, stitched together with sinew, shadows that danced like the tormented souls of his victims.

  "Akhoth! Az gol latishu d?f! Plathrok ghar albai asht atish latob dushum bal!" (Master! I have brought you nourishment! A broth of elven bones is good for restoring one's magical power!) the Blue Ogre rumbled, almost fawningly, as he cautiously entered the tent. He moved with a grace that was unnatural for his gigantic body, trying not to make a sound. In his huge paws, he held a crude clay pot, from which a thick, cloying steam was rising. Even his mighty, battle-scarred figure, capable of breaking down a fortress wall on its own, seemed to shrink and cower in the presence of his master. His own magical aura, powerful and overwhelming to any mortal, felt pathetic and insignificant here, like the flame of a candle next to the mouth of a volcano.

  Nosgorath, who was standing with his back to him at a crudely constructed altar of blackened bones, didn't even turn. He was completely absorbed in the contemplation of his own hand. His fingers, covered not in skin but in gleaming, chitin-like plates, slowly, almost hypnotically, clenched and unclenched. A visible, almost tangible dark energy, like a black, cold smoke, swirled around them. In it, like worlds in a nascent universe, crimson sparks of pure chaos flared and died. He could feel it. The power. The very same that had been sealed for millennia, that had slumbered in captivity, was now filling him again, flowing through his veins not as blood, but as a molten void. Every beat of his non-heart was the strike of a hammer, forging him anew.

  "Spare me your… cuisine," Nosgorath finally said. His voice, devoid of all emotion, was quiet, but it grated on the ear like glass on metal, making the very air in the tent vibrate. He slowly lowered his hand.

  "The power is returning to this body. I have no need for this carrion to sustain it."

  "My apologies, my lord," the Blue Ogre murmured with a slavish submission, bowing his hideous head low and, not daring to turn his back, backing toward the exit.

  Nosgorath, at last, slowly turned. His two crimson eyes, which were without pupils and looked like congealed drops of blood, fixed on the trembling figure of the ogre. On his inhuman face, which was without lips and was composed of sharp, chitinous planes, something resembling a cold, predatory smirk formed.

  "Humans…" he said, and the very word sounded like a curse.

  "In the ages that I was imprisoned, they have multiplied greatly. They have spread over this world like mold. They have built their pathetic stone anthills. They have tilled the earth, cut down the forests, changed the courses of the rivers. They sincerely believe that these lands belong to them." An unconcealed, cosmic contempt sounded in his voice. "What a amusing, what a touching delusion."

  He took a step forward, and the shadows in the tent, obeying his will, grew even thicker, swallowing the light from the torches.

  "We will have to teach these lesser, bustling life forms a lesson in hygiene. To burn them out. For their very existence is an insult. An insult to the memory of the Great Ravernal Empire. An insult to the will of the Magus-Emperor. All of this is his land. His world. I am merely keeping it until the return of its true master."

  He looked again at his hand, slowly clenching it into a fist, and the crimson sparks within the dark cloud flared brighter, casting bloody reflections on his face.

  "I will destroy all these insects. All their races—humans, elves, dwarves, all this chaotic, hideous biomass. All their kingdoms, all their pathetic religions and hopes. And when the Emperor returns, I will present him with the gift of a clean, sterile world. A world, washed in blood and fire, ready to receive once more its one and only, its true sovereign."

  He fell silent, and his predatory sneer froze on his face. The sneer of one who is not just anticipating victory. But of one who sees it as the only possible, predetermined outcome. For he was not just a demon. He was a loyal soldier. The last soldier of a long-dead, but still living in his memory, great and terrible Empire.