The Parpaldia Empire. The Capital, Esthirant.

  The Empire, sprawling across the southern part of the Phillades continent, covered approximately 3.1 million square kilometers. Its capital was Esthirant, the shining heart of the Empire itself, a city of screaming contrasts. Its grand boulevards, lined with majestic buildings in the Empire style with their snow-white marble colonnades and gilded domes, inspired reverent awe in anyone who arrived from afar. Here, at the center of the civilized world, the fates of dozens of vassal states were decided, and the air itself seemed saturated with the thick, heavy aroma of power, money, and intrigues aged like fine wine over many years. But one had only to turn off the wide avenues, paved with perfect cobblestones, into the side streets, and the dazzling brilliance gave way to deep shadow. In the labyrinth of narrow, crooked alleys, perpetually wet with refuse, lived those whose blood and sweat sustained this grandeur—artisans, merchants, servants, and the countless slaves brought from conquered barbarian lands, their eyes filled either with dull submission or with a hidden, powerless hatred.

  In the very heart of this splendor and squalor, within the impregnable walls of the imperial palace and in the shadowy offices of the government buildings, were the three pillars, the three leviathans, upon which the entire foreign policy of the Empire rested. The Three Departments of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, each with its own hierarchy, budget, and methods.

  The First Department, whose luxurious, carpeted chambers were located within the imperial palace itself, was the elite of the elite, a caste of untouchables. Its employees—exclusively the offspring of the imperial family or the most influential blood aristocrats—dealt with only one thing: the "Great Game." Their field of activity was relations with the four other world superpowers: the magical Holy Mirishial Empire, the technological Mu, the fallen Leifor Empire, and the enigmatic Emor Kingdom. Here, there was no place for brute force or direct threats. Only the highest degree of delicacy, intrigues as fine as a spider's web, dynastic marriages planned a century in advance, and years-long, multi-stage combinations. Every one of their decisions, every word written in a calligraphic hand on crested parchment, was carefully weighed, for it could upset the fragile balance of power that kept the world from global war. They were the architects of the world, but their building material was the fates of entire nations.

  The Second Department, located in its own majestic building near the palace, dealt with more mundane, but no less important, matters. Its sphere of influence included all the other civilized states, those who were strong enough that they could not be simply conquered, but not powerful enough to speak with the Empire as equals. The spirit of a colonial administration reigned here. The members of the middle and high aristocracy who served in this department proudly bore the "white man's burden," as they called it, imposing the will of Esthirant through unequal trade agreements, economic sanctions, and political pressure. Their main weapons were not swords, but money and threats, cloaked in the polite language of ultimatums.

  And finally, the Third Department. Its central headquarters was located in a grim, windowless building on the outskirts of the government quarter, looking more like a fortress or a prison, but its true power extended far beyond the capital. The branches of the Third Department, like a poisonous spiderweb, ensnared all the lands of the Outside Civilization Area. This department was surrounded by a sinister secrecy and was feared even by the aristocrats of the other agencies. Its task was simple: to deal with the "barbarians"—those peoples whose level of development, according to the imperial classification, was stuck somewhere between the Early and Late Middle Ages.

  In these godforsaken lands, the Third Department had been given complete carte blanche. Blackmail, bribery, the organization of coups d'état, political assassinations, the instigation of internecine wars—there were no forbidden methods here. To suppress any resistance, they had at their disposal special punitive forces, the so-called Imperial Oversight Army. These units, staffed by the most depraved and cruel mercenaries, former pirates, and condemned criminals from all over the Empire, turned any "barbarian" uprising into a demonstrative bloodbath, slaughtering entire cities and villages.

  The main and only goal of the Third Department was merciless exploitation. They drained everything from the conquered lands: resources, slaves, treasures. These territories became disenfranchised colonies, where every natural resource and every human life belonged to the Parpaldia Empire. It was this department, led by Lord Kaios, that had just suffered the most humiliating defeat in its history, having lost its main asset—the Louria Kingdom. And it was this department that now thirsted for revenge. Revenge not just to restore its honor, but to preserve the very system upon which its greatness was built. For if the barbarians learned to fight back, the entire Empire would collapse.

  The office of the head of the Third Department was shrouded in a semi-darkness as thick and heavy as velvet. The only source of light was a dimly shimmering magical crystal on the ceiling, which cast warm, unsettling reflections on the polished mahogany panels and the gold leaf on the spines of the books. At a massive oak desk, which looked like an altar in a temple of the dark arts, sat Lord Kaios. His hair, with a barely perceptible touch of gray, was neatly combed back, and a perfectly trimmed mustache gave his aristocratic face an expression of a cold, almost bored arrogance. Unhurriedly, with a surgeon's precision, he was cutting a piece of rare roast beef into small portions, occasionally taking a sip of dark, almost black wine from a heavy silver goblet.

  "Mr. Ambassador, is your matter urgent?" he said casually, without even deigning to look at his guest. His voice, deep and even, was devoid of all emotion, as if the conversation were not about the fate of an entire kingdom, but about the price of grain. "My apologies for receiving you during my meal, but it has been a tiring day."

  The ambassador from the Topa Kingdom, an elderly man with a parchment-like face and hands that trembled with a nervous tension, took a few steps forward and bowed low, almost to the floor.

  "Lord Kaios, my king has instructed me to deliver an urgent message," the ambassador's voice shook, but he desperately tried to make it sound firm. "The 'Doors of the World'… they have fallen to the demonic horde. Nosgorath… he has returned. With him are the legions of the high dark orcs and…"

  Kaios stopped abruptly, his knife falling onto the expensive porcelain plate with a soft clink. He finally raised his eyes to the ambassador. There was no fear in them, no surprise. Only a cold, predatory curiosity.

  "Hah. The very same Demon Lord from your children's horror stories?" He raised a mocking eyebrow. "Don't be so dramatic, Ambassador. Nosgorath is merely a remnant, a glitch in the program. An unsuccessful, though quite powerful, piece of bioweaponry left over from the Ancient Magical Empire. Sometimes the echoes of the past are a bit too loud."

  The ambassador took a shuddering breath, his face growing even paler.

  "Be that as it may, Your Excellency, this threat is real! We have appealed to all our allied nations for aid," he continued, a pleading note entering his voice. "My kingdom is in dire need of military assistance. If you could spare us even a few batteries of your long-range magical artillery…"

  Lord Kaios listened to him without interrupting. Then he unhurriedly cut another piece of meat, put it in his mouth, and chewed it slowly, with a visible relish. When he was finished, he wiped his lips with a silk napkin with an elegant gesture.

  "I assume you require an answer right now? Very well. The answer is no. It is impossible."

  "BUT, LORD KAIOS!" Desperation finally broke through in the ambassador's voice. "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! IF TOPA FALLS, THIS HORDE WILL SPILL ONTO PHILLADES! ONTO YOUR LANDS! I BEG OF YOU…"

  Kaios lazily raised a hand, cutting off his hysteria.

  "My dear Ambassador, you clearly have a poor conception of the power of our regular army," he said coldly. "A single one of our legions would be more than sufficient to turn all the demons from your myths into fertilizer for the fields." His voice was calm, but there was steel in it. "However, you have chosen an extremely inopportune moment. Look."

  He casually gestured with his chin at a stack of parchment scrolls and wooden caskets on the edge of the desk.

  "Reports. Dispatches. Complaints. For the entire past month, you have ignored our reminders, my dear Ambassador. This year, not a single ship carrying slaves has arrived in the Empire from Topa. I, as you know, consider myself to be of the moderate, liberal party, and therefore I must ask you—be more careful."

  He finally looked the ambassador directly in the eye and smiled under his bushy mustache. But the smile was colder than a winter wind, and it sent a clammy, icy terror down the ambassador's spine.

  "There are many in our Empire who are very, and I must stress, very quick-tempered and intolerant of any violation of the good old traditions. They might consider your oversight… an insult. Allow me, my carriage will take you to your embassy. The streets of Esthirant can be unsafe at night. Especially for those who forget their debts."

  In the sky near Fenn.

  At a working altitude of 4,000 meters, in the thin, crystal clear air, where the horizon was just beginning to bend slightly, a figure flew in perfect formation. Not wyverns, no. It was a majestic, almost divine being — a Wind Dragon, the elite and pride of the Gahara thearchy, sent by the supreme theocrat to patrol the borders of the friendly kingdom of Fenn. His emerald scales, shimmering in the sun, seemed to absorb and reflect the ruthless, spotless light, and each powerful but completely silent flap of his two pairs of wings produced only a barely audible whisper of wind, which was more like the breath of the sky itself.

  "What magnificent weather. Almost perfect for flying," said a young man with long, silver hair plaited into an intricate braid and fastened with a jade clip. This was Lord Susanoo, the scion of one of the noblest houses of Gahara. He leaned back lazily in his high, leather-trimmed saddle, turning his face to the cold sun. His voice was as calm and melodic as a flute—the voice of a man who had considered the heavens his home since birth.

  "Lord Susanoo," the low, rumbling, but not disrespectful voice of his dragon, Kaminari, sounded in his mind. It was not speech woven from sound, but a direct stream of thoughts, images, and sensations. "That floating fortress on the horizon has 'probed' us again with its bright 'light.' It passed over us, like a tongue."

  Lord Susanoo frowned, his relaxed posture instantly vanishing. He sat up straight, his hand falling to the hilt of the long katana that rested at his hip. He peered into the distance, trying to pierce the blinding blue with his sharp, almost inhuman warrior-aristocrat's vision. Below, on the surface of the ocean, which glittered like molten silver, a barely visible dot was darkening. A Russian patrol ship, which for several days now had been loitering at the edge of their patrol sector.

  "What are you talking about, Kaminari? I see no lights," he replied in confusion, straining his eyes to their limit.

  The dragon shook its enormous head with a faint, almost imperceptible irritation. The mental image it sent to its rider was full of a condescending patience.

  "Feh, humans… Your eyes see only a small fraction of the world," the mocking echo of the dragon's mind reverberated in Susanoo's thoughts. "This 'light' is invisible to your weak sight, my lord. It does not shine; it is felt. It strikes with an unnatural pulse, like a silent scream in an absolute void. It is similar to the way we communicate with each other over great distances, but it is thousands of times more powerful and… cruder. This beam allows them to determine our exact position. How high we are. And how fast we are flying," the dragon explained patiently, turning its long, elegant snout toward the distant dot on the horizon.

  Susanoo nodded thoughtfully. His mind, accustomed to the laws of magic and nature, was trying to make sense of what he had heard.

  "Hmm, so that fortress not only sees, but 'knows' everything about us, even from such an extreme distance?" his voice grew more serious. He tried to imagine a mage capable of such a scrying spell and could not. It would require the power of an entire magical order.

  "Precisely. But their 'light' is so strong and… insistent, that I am certain they see and know far more than we can even imagine. They know the material of your armor. They know the beat of your heart," the dragon replied, and in its thoughts was a note of poorly concealed unease. "I have never felt anything like it. It is a cold, dead gaze. The gaze of a machine, not of a living being."

  Susanoo instinctively ran a hand over the smooth steel of his katana. He surveyed the boundless expanse of the sky, and for the first time in a long while, the familiar feeling of absolute dominion over the heavens was replaced by the sensation that he was merely a tiny, vulnerable dot in someone else's strange, incomprehensible, and all-seeing sights. As if the entire sky had been turned into a giant laboratory table, and he was an insect pinned to it. The dragon, sensing his tension, gave a smooth beat of its wings, effortlessly changing its altitude by several hundred meters.

  They continued their flight in an oppressive, tense silence, each lost in his own thoughts. The wind still played in the young man's silver hair. But the serenity and the sense of freedom had been irrevocably lost. Lord Susanoo was protected not only by his armor but also by a complex aerodynamic saddle that allowed him to withstand flight at a speed of five hundred kilometers per hour. The dragon's head was crowned with an elegant war helm. They were the pinnacle of biological and magical evolution in this world. But now, under the unseen gaze of an alien technology, all these advantages seemed like children's toys. Their living, natural "sense of the world," their ability to emit and receive electromagnetic waves, seemed like a whisper compared to the deafening, soulless cry of this mechanical "light." An invisible, cold beam of a strange, incomprehensible technology invisibly bound them to the distant ship, and this connection was becoming more and more palpable with every minute, like icy fetters, slowly shackling their wings.

  The Fenn Kingdom. The Harbor of the Capital, Amanoki.

  The day of the demonstration, which would later enter the annals of New World history as the "Amanoki Lesson," dawned clear and nearly windless. In the outer roadstead, drawn up in a perfect parade formation, four old, decommissioned but still formidable-looking Atakebune of the Fenn Kingdom bobbed on a lazy swell. These were not elegant predators of the sea, but true floating fortresses, the pinnacle of shipbuilding from the bygone Sengoku era. Their nearly square, massive hulls of dark, tarred ironwood were crowned with multi-tiered superstructures, or yagura, that resembled miniature samurai castles. Their high sides, plated with thin sheets of iron for protection against fire arrows, were dotted with loopholes for archers and arquebusiers. From their tall, though temporarily furled, masts, the battle standards of the royal house flew proudly—silent, sun- and salt-faded witnesses to long-past victories and glory.

  A little farther off, at a respectful distance, as if from those condemned to a ritual sacrifice, stood the ships of the delegations from allied and neutral states. Here were the swift clippers of the Sios Kingdom and the clumsy merchant vessels from Topa. They had been invited to witness what they hoped would be a historic event—a demonstration of the power of their new, enigmatic ally.

  However, among this motley collection of sailing vessels, the main actors were absent. The Russian squadron—the destroyer Nastoychivyy and the two frigates, Neustrashimyy and Yaroslav Mudryy—was positioned far out at sea, at the very edge of visibility, twenty kilometers from the shore. Their dark, angular, predatory silhouettes, devoid of the familiar masts and sails, seemed like ominous shadows against the glittering surface of the sea. The official reason for this distance was the insufficient depth of Amanoki's harbor for ships of their class—an elegant pretext that fooled no one. The true reason was obvious to all the admirals and captains present: the Russians were demonstrating not only their firepower, but also their absolute, humiliating impunity.

  On a specially constructed viewing gallery, adorned with gold draperies and the crests of the royal house, the entire military and political elite of Fenn and their guests had assembled. In the center, as straight and as unbreakable as a blade of Damascus steel, stood the Sword King, Shihan, himself. His white-gloved hand rested on the hilt of his famous katana, and his gaze was cold and focused.

  "Look at those floating fortresses, Magreb," he said, without raising his voice, but loud enough for his chief advisor, who was standing beside him, to hear. His chin nodded almost imperceptibly toward the old Atakebune. "To think that once, they were, through some misunderstanding, called the terror of the seas. So much blood was spilled to prove that right."

  Advisor Magreb, an elderly, wise man robed in a silk haori, nodded respectfully.

  "It was so, my liege. However, let us not be too quick to draw conclusions. The distance to the Russian ships is no less than twenty kilometers. I have consulted with our best artillerists and mages. Even if their cannons were to fire, the projectile would be in the air for more than a minute. To hit a stationary target from such a range is on the verge of the possible. And a moving one… it is practically impossible."

  Shihan said nothing, only tightened his grip on the smooth hilt of his katana, staring thoughtfully at the horizon, where the barely discernible dots of the Russian ships shimmered in the haze of the warm air.

  "They are not even moving. Are they really going to fire from there? It contradicts every law of ballistics we know."

  "Their main ship, the destroyer, is certainly impressive in its size," the advisor added, squinting. "But its design… it seems absurd from the point of view of our naval tactics. Two enormous gun turrets, one on the bow, the other on the stern. How can one deliver an effective broadside with such a layout? It's laughable."

  Shihan raised his hand and glanced at his wristwatch—an elegant, complex, and utterly incomprehensible gift from the Russian ambassadors, which, nevertheless, showed the time with a frightening accuracy. The thin second hand was inexorably counting down the moments, approaching the "12."

  "Hmph. It begins," he murmured to himself.

  At that very moment, on the horizon, where the main silhouette of the destroyer Nastoychivyy loomed, its forward AK-130 artillery mount came to life. Two monstrous barrels, joined in a single turret, rose slowly, almost lazily, as if with reluctance, and, like the two unblinking eyes of a cyclops, stared at the doomed Atakebune. A thick, low-frequency hum carried across the water as the turret turned a few fractions of a degree, making the final adjustments, which had been calculated not by a man, but by the ship's "Lev-218" fire-control system.

  BOOM! BOOM!

  Two deafening, almost twin shots tore through the morning silence. A second later, the aft turret fired. The sound wave, which reached the shore nearly a minute later, made everyone in the gallery flinch involuntarily. Ripples appeared in the wine glasses on the tables, and the gold draperies stirred. Four barely visible dark dots had, at an inhuman speed, streaked across the clear sky, and those with the sharpest vision had time to see how, upon reaching the apex of their trajectory, they began their inexorable descent.

  The result exceeded both the wildest and the most terrible of expectations. There were no misses, no ranging shots, no columns of water from shorts or overs. The four Atakebune were hit almost simultaneously. The 130mm high-explosive fragmentation shells, with their radio proximity fuzes programmed to detonate a few meters above the deck, had done their work.

  The shells did not pierce their hulls. They exploded above them, turning each ship into a vision of hell. Thousands of red-hot fragments, flying at the speed of bullets, tore through the decks, the yagura superstructures, and the hulls from top to bottom, turning the wood into a sieve and sweeping away everything in their path. The shockwave snapped the masts like dry twigs. And then, the powder magazines detonated.

  Huge columns of fire and black smoke shot up to the very sky, and the wooden hulls, which had once been the pride of the fleet, were blown apart into millions of burning splinters. This was not destruction. It was an evaporation.

  Everyone in the gallery was frozen, their mouths agape. In the dead silence that followed, one could hear only the crackling of the burning wood, far out at sea, and the hissing of the water as it washed over the red-hot wreckage. Even the oldest, most seasoned generals and admirals, who had been through dozens of battles, were shaken to their core. In that very instant, the very concept of warfare as they knew it had changed. It had become something else. Cold, fast, and absolutely merciless.

  Shihan, the king whose life had been dedicated to the art of the sword, a man accustomed to measuring strength by the sharpness of a blade and the fortitude of a warrior, finally, fully, understood: before him was something that had completely, irrevocably, changed all the rules of the game. Valor, honor, courage—all of it was turned to dust in the face of such an impersonal, mathematically precise power.

  "My esteemed councilors, my friends," he finally broke the deafening silence. His voice was firm, but it held notes of an almost reverent admiration. "I believe it has now become abundantly clear to everyone that an alliance with the Russian Federation is not just a possibility. It is the sole necessity for survival in the new world that is being born before our very eyes. Perhaps we should ask them not just for an alliance. But for a protectorate. For protection."

  His words hung in the air, and they were met not with a murmur or with arguments. Only with silent, understanding, and respectful nods. Every warrior and politician present on this day understood: their world would never be the same again. The age of the sword and the sail had just been shot to pieces from a distance of twenty kilometers.

  Seconds before the Fenn ships attack.

  The Captains bridge of the Destroyer Nastoychivyy.

  The sun stood straight overhead. Its merciless rays turned the surface of the ocean into blinding, melted silver. The air was dead still and hot. But inside the Combat Information Center of the destroyer Nastoychivyy, deep in the heart of the ship, a pleasant, artificial cold reigned. Here, in the blue gloom created by dozens of tactical screens, the outside world with its scorching heat seemed like a distant, fake picture. The silence was only broken by the steady hum of cooling systems and the quiet, choppy reports of the operators, sounding like the language of some unknown mechanical god.

  The Captains bridge of the Destroyer Nastoychivyy. The air conditioners were screaming, trying to fight the tropical heat, but the officers of the Gunnery Department were not even sweating. They were shivering from pure concentration. Four static dots glowed on the screens of the combat control system.

  Captain, the Lev-218 fire control system has locked onto the targets. Range is twelve miles, wind and roll corrections are entered, the Weapons Officer reported without looking up from his monitor. These are the same firewood the locals marked for the scrapyard.

  Copy that. Proceed with the demonstration fire plan. Main guns one and two, prepare for battle. Load high-explosive shells with remote fuses, Volkov ordered calmly, looking at the horizon where the dots of the Fenn Atakebune ships were barely visible. Don't embarrass us in front of the natives. We are conducting diplomacy of the 130-millimeter caliber here.

  Aye, sir. Turrets are on target, the targeting operator replied. I sure hope Greenpeace isn't in this world. Otherwise, we are about to dump so much kindling into the water the beavers will get jealous.

  Cut the chatter. The fish need somewhere to live, too. Volkov smiled slightly at the corner of his mouth. Fire!

  The ship shuddered noticeably as the automatic twin AK-130 guns spit fire. The roar of the double shot hammered their ears even through the soundproofing of the bridge. Seconds later, flowers of fire bloomed in the optical sights. The shells landed perfectly, turning the ancient wooden fortresses into a cloud of dust and steam.

  Report results!

  Targets one, two, three, and four destroyed. Ammo usage is standard. We blanketed them just like on the training range, the Executive Officer chuckled with satisfaction. The locals are gonna need a broom and dustpan to scoop their fleet out of the water now.

  Very good. Log it: Live-fire exercise conducted with a grade of Excellent. Secure the guns for sea... Volkov began, but the sharp voice of the radar operator cut him off.

  "Contact! Aerial target! Azimuth two-seven-zero, range—one hundred and twenty kilometers!" Suddenly, cutting through this ritual silence, came the tense, but perfectly level voice of the operator of the "Fregat-MA" three-dimensional Radar System (RRS). On his screen, a barely perceptible dot was instantly highlighted, isolated from the interference created by solar activity. "Moving in a group. Initial analysis shows… up to twenty units. Speed is subsonic, approximately 350 kilometers per hour. Altitude—two thousand meters."

  Captain 2nd Rank Sergei Volkov, a tall, fit man of about forty with weary but razor-sharp eyes, didn't even turn from the huge electronic map. He was studying data on air currents and potential turbulence zones that could affect firing accuracy. His finger slowly slid across the dotted line marking the territorial waters of the Parpaldia Empire, which they had been demonstratively patrolling for the past two days.

  "Parpaldia…" he muttered quietly, almost inaudibly. Then, with a single fluid movement, he straightened up abruptly, and not a shadow of his previous relaxation remained. "Nature of the target? Identification?"

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  "Based on the speed profile and the nature of the reflected signal—unstable radar cross-section, characteristic of flapping flight. Biological objects, Comrade Captain 2nd Rank," came the immediate report. "With a high probability, according to intelligence data—these are wyverns from Parpaldia."

  Volkov thought for a moment; his brain, accustomed to staff work, rapidly processed the possibilities. They were flying in broad daylight. Openly. Without concealing themselves. This was not just reconnaissance. It was a brazen, insulting show of force.

  "Communications with the embassy in Amanoki! Immediately! 'Crystal' channel, highest priority! Request urgent information on the current political situation! I need to know what's happening on the ground right now!"

  "Aye, aye!" the duty communications officer barked, and a moment later, a narrowly focused, encrypted satellite request was transmitted.

  The wait seemed to stretch for an eternity, although no more than a minute passed. On the main tactical display, twenty red markers were inexorably approaching the symbol of their task force. Finally, the speaker came to life, and the calm but strained voice of the military attaché from the embassy sounded:

  "...Nastoychivyy, this is Taymyr. The situation in the Fenn capital escalated sharply ten minutes ago. The Parpaldian ambassador handed King Shihan an ultimatum, demanding the complete severance of relations with the Russian Federation and the granting of their ports for the 'needs of the Imperial Fleet.' The response must be given by sunset. There is every reason to believe that the targets you have spotted are a punitive squadron. Their task is to demonstratively loiter on the edge of visual range, exerting psychological pressure. Right now, military delegations from other countries are present in the capital, so this is a show of force aimed at everyone."

  The captain sighed deeply, almost inaudibly. Everything became crystal clear. This was a classic "gunboat diplomacy," only instead of ships, they were using dragons.

  "Copy that, Taymyr. Thank you. End transmission." He turned to his executive officer, and there was no doubt left in his eyes—only the cold, steel resolve of a professional who had been given a clear task. "General Quarters! Transmit to Neustrashimyy and Yaroslav Mudryy: form up an Air Defense wedge formation. Distance—thirty cables (Nautical Cables). Guidance radar to active mode. Open fire strictly on my command. We will shoot them down before they even see our ships. Let their Emperor receive word by dinner that his 'diplomats' failed to arrive."

  "Yes, Comrade Captain 2nd Rank!" the executive officer saluted, and the general quarters siren wailed throughout the ship.

  The crew, torn from the measured routine of the daytime watch, acted smoothly and precisely. Years of training, dozens of exercises in the cold waters of the Baltic and Barents Sea, had done their work. No panic whatsoever. Only a grim, focused, automatic efficiency. With a low hum, the launchers of the "Uragan" Surface-to-Air Missile (SAM) system moved and prepared to fire. The twin barrels of the AK-130 artillery mounts slowly rose, their fire-control radars beginning to scan the designated sector. The six-barreled AK-630 anti-aircraft guns, the "metal-cutters," whirred as they performed self-diagnostics.

  Volkov stared unblinkingly at the tactical display, where the red dots, marking the wyverns, crossed the conventional seventy-kilometer line.

  "They think no one sees them; they fly into the sun to blind us," he muttered, almost with a sneer. "A quaint, primitive tactic. Well then. Time to turn on the lights for them. And the funeral music."

  He picked up the public address microphone, and his voice, calm and firm, without the slightest hint of tension, echoed across all battle stations of the ship.

  "Uragan SAM crews… target is group one. Distance—sixty-five. Lead has been calculated. Salvo. Twenty missiles. Fire."

  The Sky over the Fenn Kingdom.

  — "Captain, the wyvern lords… they are restless. Their instincts are telling them there is an enemy nearby, perhaps the wind dragons from Gahara," one of the lead riders of the Parpaldian punitive squadron reported over the manacomm.

  The squadron commander, Lord Miminel, an aristocrat with a piercing gaze and a scar on his cheek, gave a contemptuous smirk.

  — "The dragons of Gahara would not dare to interfere. They are cowardly lizards. Cease this panic. We are proceeding to the second phase of the plan," his magically amplified voice was cold and imperious. "We fly directly for their capital, for that barbaric festival of theirs. We will divide into strike flights. My group will strike the palace. The rest of you, the coastal districts. Burn everything. So that not one stone is left on top of another. Let these barbarians learn firsthand what the wrath of the Empire is."

  — "Yes, my lord!"

  The twenty mighty wyvern lords, the pride of the Empire, began to regroup, preparing for the attack. But Lord Miminel never got the chance to give the final order. He only had time to see thin, fiery streaks shoot into the sky from a distant, almost invisible gray ship. A moment later, his body and the body of his wyvern were enveloped in a blinding cloud of white-hot shrapnel. He felt no pain. He didn't even have time to scream.

  From the surface, as if awakened titans, the "Uragan" surface-to-air missile systems began to speak. Their accuracy was absolute, their destructive power unimaginable. Against the dense formation of the wyverns, where every creature was a tempting target, this was not a battle. It was a slaughter. The very first wave of missiles erased the entire vanguard of the squadron from the sky.

  A deafening roar shook the air. The explosions tore bodies apart, the shrapnel mercilessly shredding flesh. Those who were not "lucky" enough to be killed by a direct hit died in terrible agony—from the monstrous shockwave that ruptured their lungs, or from the incendiary elements that turned them into living, screaming torches.

  On the observation gallery in Amanoki, the Sword King, Shihan, standing among his pale-faced advisors, watched this horrifying but mesmerizing spectacle without looking away. His face remained as calm as the surface of a pond, but in the depths of his dark eyes burned a mixture of primal terror and a boundless, almost religious, admiration. He had never seen anything like it in his life. He could not bring himself to call them mere men, these beings who were destroying the elite of the imperial army with such a casual, almost playful ease.

  This Russian iron ship, this floating citadel, was destroying the formidable wyvern lords with its "magical arrows" as if swatting away pesky flies. And in the chest of Shihan, an old warrior accustomed to respecting only strength, a new, unfamiliar feeling was growing. A feeling of the deepest, most respectful gratitude. These strangers had not just protected his country. They had done it without a single word about payment, without a single hint of future demands. They had done it simply because that was their way. Shihan understood: this moment was a turning point in the history of his kingdom. He had already firmly decided that their relationship with Russia must not just be strengthened. Perhaps the time had come to ask them for a protectorate.

  Around him, interrupting his thoughts, rapturous, almost hysterical shouts erupted. The invited diplomats and his own subjects, who just a minute before had been standing frozen with fear, were now celebrating. They were shouting, hugging, pointing at the distant, barely visible silhouette of the Russian ship, and praising their unknown defenders.

  When the last fireball had died in the sky, and silence had once again descended upon the land, Captain 2nd Rank Volkov on the destroyer Nastoychivyy received a report:

  — "Comrade Captain, the mission is complete. The enemy air squadron has been completely destroyed. There are no casualties among the task force's personnel or equipment."

  Volkov nodded silently.

  — "Understood. Continue observation. Prepare the marine landing party." He paused, and his voice hardened. "Somehow I don't think this is the end. Barbarians rarely admit defeat after the first blow."

  — "Aye, aye, Comrade Captain!" the executive officer replied, rushing to carry out the order.

  Not far from the site of the slaughter. A secluded, rocky island.

  The ocean waves crashed against the basalt rocks with a low, prolonged roar, throwing clouds of salt spray into the air. Here, atop a secluded cliff, buffeted by the wind, stood Susanoo. He was dressed in a dark blue hitatare, embroidered with silver clouds, over which he wore a light, almost weightless cuirass of enchanted metal. His long, silver hair, tied back in a ponytail, whipped in the wind, and his hand rested calmly on the hilt of a mother-of-pearl-inlaid katana.

  His gaze was fixed on the west, where, against the backdrop of a crimson sunset, the final scene of the recent drama was unfolding. The Russian ships, like three impregnable floating fortresses, stood in perfect formation over the watery grave of their enemies. And on the surface of the ocean, bobbing on the waves, the last evidence of the slaughter was slowly disappearing—the smoking, mangled remains of the wyvern lords and the charred bodies of their once-proud riders, becoming a final meal for the predators of the sea.

  Beside him, with his four powerful wings gracefully folded, sat his faithful wind dragon. The giant's scales shimmered with all the colors of mother-of-pearl in the light of the setting sun, and his ancient, wise eyes gazed serenely at the remains of the battlefield.

  "To wait it out here, on these rocks, was the only correct decision. Our intervention in that slaughter would have been superfluous," the dragon's deep, rumbling voice sounded in Susanoo's mind.

  The young man nodded slowly, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. His face, which usually expressed only a slight boredom and an aristocratic calm, was now serious.

  "Yes. Russia took the blow that was intended for the Fenn Kingdom upon themselves. And they emerged from it the absolute victors," he said aloud, not taking his eyes from the horizon. "Their power… it is staggering. It is beyond our comprehension. Even for us, who are accustomed to the might of the ancient dragons, there is much to be learned from them."

  The dragon turned its elegant head, and its enormous, sapphire-blue eyes fixed on its rider.

  "The people from Russia… their technology and their will carry with them something more than simple destructive power. They have brought entirely new rules to the game of this world. And the old order collapsed today, before our very eyes. The only question is what will come to replace it."

  Susanoo took a deep breath, and the cold sea air filled his lungs.

  "Perhaps we are merely the witnesses to the birth of a new, frightening epoch. If Russia is capable of changing the course of history so easily, then what does the future hold for this world? What is our place in it?"

  The dragon seemed to ponder its rider's words. Then its gaze turned back to the sea, where the last glimmers of the sunset were dying on the steel hulls of the Russian ships.

  "Time will tell, Susanoo. Time will put everything in its place. For now, our task is to observe. To learn. And to be ready for the fact that the future will bring with it trials, compared to which the wrath of Parpaldia will seem like a childish tantrum."

  Susanoo nodded in silence. He knew the dragon was right. Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, new, even darker clouds were already gathering. But for now, in this brief, fleeting moment of peace, he was simply a witness. A witness to a turning point in the history of this world.

  The Fenn Kingdom. The Royal Palace.

  After the last echoes of the celebration in the streets had died down, the most important part began in the throne room of the palace, in the presence of a small circle of the highest dignitaries—the negotiations. The air was heavy with tension and the scent of incense.

  "Allow me once again to express our deepest gratitude and appreciation, esteemed envoys," began Motam, the Tenth Sword and the king's right-hand man. He bowed his head low. "You have saved not only the lives of our people, but also our honor."

  "We appreciate your words, Lord Motam," Ambassador Vishnevsky replied calmly, giving a slight bow in return. "However, in order to compile a full report for my government, we need to clarify a few details. May I ask a few questions?"

  "Ask," the Sword King, Shihan, nodded. His voice was even, but there was a weariness in it.

  "This type of wyvern, the one used in the attack… Did they belong to the Parpaldia Empire?" Colonel Gruzdev, the military attaché, unrolled a satellite image on the table, on which the flying beasts had been captured.

  "Yes," Motam stated confidently. "That is their new breed, the so-called 'wyvern lords.' An elite unit. They were in the service of the Imperial Oversight Army."

  The Russian diplomats exchanged quick, almost imperceptible glances. They had already heard that name in the reports from the Foreign Intelligence Service.

  "The Imperial Oversight Army…" Vishnevsky repeated thoughtfully. "What are its primary objectives in this region? We assume their goal was not simply intimidation."

  Shihan sighed heavily, and his face grew dark.

  "That army, Ambassador, was created for a single purpose—to break the will of others. To destroy dissenters. To drain the resources from those who are unable to fight back. In their hands are magically-enhanced muskets, against which our swords are children's toys. They recruit the most depraved cutthroats from every corner of the Empire. I fear for my country. Even if we were all to die—I, my swords—do you think they would stop? No. They would slaughter everyone. From the children to the elderly. The Empire is an insatiable hydra. If you cut off one head, two will grow in its place."

  An unconcealed, almost childlike pain was in his voice.

  "When I was a boy, I heard the tales of the merchants about the Altaras Kingdom. A nation as proud and as independent as our own. The Empire provoked a conflict there, and then conquered and annexed it. Trampled it. I do not want my homeland to suffer the same fate."

  He looked at the two Russian diplomats with a mixture of hope and pleading. A silence fell upon the hall. For a few seconds, Vishnevsky and Gruzdev conferred quietly in a language no one else present understood. It was not Russian. It was Mongolian, one of the many languages they had had to learn for their work in this new, diverse world.

  At last, the ambassador turned again to the king.

  "Your Majesty, according to the latest intelligence, another, much larger squadron is approaching your shores from the southwest. Twenty ships-of-the-line. Do they also belong to Parpaldia?"

  Shihan sighed heavily.

  "Yes. That is their main support fleet."

  The king bowed his head, his fingers gripping the hilt of his katana so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He was trying to suppress a wave of anger and helplessness.

  "Do not worry. We will help you deal with this threat as well," the ambassador stated firmly.

  "What… what will you demand in return?" Shihan asked, raising his eyes, his suspicion barely concealed. He was a warrior, but he was also a king. He knew that everything in this world came with a price.

  "We require two things, Your Majesty," Vishnevsky's voice became business-like. "Unrestricted trade between our countries. And the lease of two parcels of land on your coast. For the construction of our naval bases. The term of the lease will be one hundred and fifty years."

  Shihan considered this for a moment. The price was a high one. It meant a partial loss of sovereignty. But the alternative was total annihilation.

  "That is… a reasonable price," he finally said, and a look of relief appeared on his face. "I see things clearly. For the salvation of my homeland and my people, I agree."

  Two days later, in a formal ceremony, two historic documents were signed. The first was a treaty on free trade. The second was a treaty on the lease and on mutual defense. Russia was taking the Fenn Kingdom under its protectorate. As he signed the parchment with a heavy, golden quill, Shihan felt not the bitterness of defeat, but pride. He had saved his people. He had given them a future. Under the shadow of the double-headed eagle.

  The Southeast Sea, the waters of the Fenn Kingdom. The hundred-gun flagship ship-of-the-line Phishanus.

  On the main deck of the flagship Phishanus, the pride and the most formidable symbol of the naval might of the Parpaldia Empire, an exemplary, almost ritualistic order reigned. Hundreds of sailors, with an unhurried, almost painfully automatic coordination, were swabbing the tarred oak deck to a mirror shine, polishing the brass of the ship's bells, which had grown dull in the salt wind, and checking the tension of the rigging, which was as taut as the strings of a giant harp. The ship, like the entire fleet, was moving at a speed that was unnatural for its gigantic size, leaving a wide, churning wake behind its ornately decorated stern.

  This propulsion was provided not by the wind, but by magic. On the stern of each ship, in the center of a carved gallery, was installed the main artifact of the Empire—the "Tear of the Wind God." A small, faceted crystal, encased in a bronze ring, pulsed with a steady, bluish light. From it emanated a constant, low hum, and it generated a powerful, directional stream of air that filled the giant sails with a roar. Around the artifact, the air shimmered and distorted, as if from a great heat—a visible embodiment of a power that placed the imperial fleet above the laws of nature.

  But beneath this external gloss of imperial discipline, in the very atmosphere on board, there was something alien. An anxiety. An almost tangible, clammy premonition of disaster, which not even this magical, salty sea breeze could dispel.

  "Admiral, Lord Miminel's squadron from the Oversight Army is still not responding," a young communications lieutenant, an aristocrat with a pale and drawn face from two sleepless nights at the manacomm, struggled to keep the tremor out of his voice. The hissing and crackling in the receiver crystal was driving him mad. "The last report was almost two days ago. He confirmed their course for the port of Amanoki to conduct the punitive action. After that—complete silence. Absolute."

  Admiral Poquetoire, the commander of the main invasion fleet, a massive, heavyset man with a face ruddy from years of wine abuse, did not even turn. He continued to stare at the horizon through his spyglass, which was richly inlaid with ivory.

  "Miminel has probably already drowned the capital of those barbarians in fire and is now, as befits an officer of the Oversight Army, enjoying the spoils and the local wenches," he rumbled, without lowering the spyglass. His voice was low and confident. "Those aristocrat-punishers have their own amusements; they couldn't care less about regulations and reports. Stop spouting nonsense, Lieutenant, and check your communication channels again. The savages of Fenn are not capable of even scratching the enchanted armor of one of our wyvern lords."

  "But, Admiral, sir, the protocol requires a report every six hours…" the lieutenant began, for whom a violation of the regulations was more terrifying than an enemy cannonball.

  "To hell with your protocol!" Captain Washinashi, the commander of the Phishanus, a middle-aged man with a weary but hard-as-a-steel-cable gaze, barked. He despised the staff aristocrats and trusted only in experience and strength. "You heard the admiral's order!"

  "You are right, Captain," the admiral suddenly said, his tone softening as he lowered his spyglass. He slowly turned to his officers, and in his eyes was a flicker of a weary wisdom. He was not just a brute, but an experienced naval commander who understood the subtleties of the game. "In these wild, barbarian waters, one must not underestimate anyone. The cunning and the treachery of these savages can at times be more dangerous than our cannons. All stations—double the watch. I want no surprises."

  Captain Washinashi snapped to attention, his irritation instantly replaced by respect for his commander's foresight.

  "Aye, Admiral!"

  And at that very moment, from the highest mast, came the piercing, amplified-by-a-speaking-trumpet cry of the lookout:

  "SHIPS SIGHTED! FROM THE EAST! BEARING DOWN ON US! LOOKS LIKE THE FENN FLEET!"

  Captain Washinashi's face instantly transformed. The weariness and the irritation vanished, replaced by the predatory, hungry excitement of a predator that has just spotted its prey.

  "Excellent! Speak of the devil! Prepare the magical cannons for battle! Form the fleet into a line of battle!" his voice, like a clap of thunder, rolled across the entire deck.

  The ship instantly came to life. The sailors scrambled to their posts, their movements swift and precise, as if in a well-rehearsed, deadly dance. With a low groan, the heavy gun port lids began to swing open, revealing the black, deadly muzzles of the magical cannons. From the powder magazines, lines of sailors carrying the cartridges containing the magical gunpowder snaked upward. Discipline, years of training, and a belief in the invincibility of the Empire—that was what made the fleet of Parpaldia unbeatable in these waters.

  Admiral Poquetoire raised his spyglass again. On the horizon, he could see a scattering of small, bustling ships. The fleet of Fenn.

  "Don't be in a hurry, Captain," his voice was perfectly calm, with a note of anticipation. "Let them get closer. Let them have a taste of false hope. Barbarians always charge into battle, blinded by rage and stupidity. Our task today is not just to win. Our task is to teach them a lesson. Let every one of their useless shots, every cannonball that falls into the water short of our hulls, be a hymn to our imperial greatness. Let their despair, when they realize their utter helplessness, be our greatest prize."

  The Southeast Sea. The territorial waters of the Fenn Kingdom.

  Thirteen small, predatory silhouettes, like a pack of sea wolves, kept their uneasy watch against the backdrop of a reddening dawn. This was the entire naval fleet of the Fenn Kingdom—a fleet consisting of "Kohaya"-class ships. Long, narrow, and low in the water, they were not designed for a battle of the line. Their element was speed and surprise. The tarred masts of local ironwood creaked, the low sails of coarse linen caught every gust of wind, but their main strength was hidden below deck—dozens of oars that, on command, could turn the ship into a swift arrow, independent of the whims of the weather. Along their sides, like scales, were set high wooden shields—tate—a legacy of endless wars with pirates, where the deciding factor was not a volley of cannons, but the accuracy of the archers and the fury of the boarding party.

  The commander of this small fleet, Admiral Kushira, a young but already battle-hardened warrior from dozens of daring raids, stood on the captain's bridge of his flagship. The wind whipped his light, sun-bleached-white hair, and on his face was a mask of a grim, focused determination. He stared at the horizon, and in his piercing blue eyes, there was no fear. Only the cold, sober calculation of a tactician who knew the strengths and weaknesses of his own weapon. He had a plan. A desperate, almost suicidal one, but the only one that gave them even a ghost of a chance.

  His ace in the hole, his only hope, was a heavy magical cannon, secretly installed under a false forecastle on his flagship. A powerful, long-range weapon, bought for a fabulous sum from smugglers who, risking their heads, had stolen it from an imperial arsenal. The plan was as simple as a sword thrust: to use the speed and maneuverability of the "Kohaya" to break through the enemy's line before they could bring their cumbersome ships-of-the-line to bear, and with a single, precise shot from this weapon, to decapitate their armada by destroying the admiral's flagship.

  The silence on the bridge was broken by his aide, a young officer who was nervously fidgeting with the hilt of his sword.

  "So the rumors were not lies. They have sent their main fleet after all," a poorly concealed tremor was in his voice. "Admiral, our ships are not designed to fight ships-of-the-line. Their broadside will turn us to splinters..."

  Kushira, at last, slowly turned to him. In his eyes, for a moment, flared that spark of a wild, infectious confidence that made men follow him to certain death.

  "They are not expecting an attack from us. They are certain that we are a pack of savages in fishing boats who will scatter in terror at the very sight of their imperial flag," Kushira's voice was firm, almost cheerful. "Their ships are floating fortresses, unconquerable in a battle of the line. But they are as clumsy as sleeping whales. We are a swarm of hornets. We don't need to sink them all. We need to get to the queen. In their arrogance lies our tiny, almost ghostly, chance."

  "COMMANDER! ON THE HORIZON! A FOREST OF MASTS! THE PARPALDIAN FLEET!" the piercing, breaking cry of the lookout came from the mast.

  Kushira spun around. There, in the distance, like a nightmarish mirage, the silhouettes of the enemy armada were beginning to emerge from the morning haze. Twenty-two huge, multi-decked ships. Their dazzlingly white sails, filled with a magical wind, seemed to block out half the sky. They were coming on fast, confidently, an unbreakable wall, like a pack of hungry leviathan-sharks that had scented blood.

  "Drums—to battle! Oars to the water!" Kushira commanded loudly, his voice rising above the sound of the wind.

  The fleet froze, and then came to life. The sails were furled. Bare-chested sailors scrambled for the oars, their muscles bulging with the strain. Inside each ship, a war drum began to beat a rhythm, setting the pace for the rowers. The ships, which had been lazily bobbing on the waves just moments before, shuddered and, like living predators, lunged forward. That sinister, almost sacred silence that comes only moments before the start of a battle fell, broken only by the measured beat of the drums and the splash of hundreds of oars.

  "Distance to the enemy?" he asked without turning, his voice as cold as steel.

  "Less than two kilometers, Commander! They are entering the maximum engagement range of our main gun!" the navigator replied.

  Kushira nodded and, drawing his long, narrow sword, raised it high above his head.

  "Raise the attack flag! Today we will show these arrogant imperial dogs how the free warriors of Fenn fight and die!"

  His flagship, driven by the coordinated strokes of hundreds of oars, sharply increased its speed, heading straight for the heart of the enemy armada. The other twelve ships, like a pack of loyal wolves, rushed after him, forming up into an attack wedge. In that moment, it became clear to everyone: even if this was to be their last battle, they would fight in such a way that their names would forever be remembered in legends and songs. So that their enemies, in recalling this day, would feel not triumph, but an icy prick of respect and fear. The day when a small, proud fleet had dared to challenge the most powerful empire in the world.

  Aboard the destroyer Nastoychivyy.

  A cold, almost sterile silence reigned in the Combat Information Center, broken only by the steady hum of the equipment and the crisp, emotionless reports. Here, in the armored heart of the ship, there was no room for doubt or fear. Only icy calculation and flawless execution.

  —"To the commander of Combat Unit Two," the powerful, calm voice of the executive officer came over the speakers. "Target is a group of surface vessels, bearing three-two-zero. Range—seventy kilometers. Accept targeting data from the 'Fregat-MA' radar. Confirm readiness to employ the 'Moskit' system."

  The commands were immediately relayed to the relevant battle stations. Green readiness indicators began to flash on the missile operators' consoles. Somewhere in the bowels of the ship, with a heavy, visceral hum of hydraulics, the quadruple KT-190 launch systems came to life, their armored covers hissing as they slid aside, revealing the transport-launch containers with the three-ton P-270 "Moskit" missiles. The ship, which until now had been merely an observer, was transforming into a predator, preparing for a deadly pounce.

  —"Authorization to use weapons has been received. The target is the enemy flagship," Captain Volkov's voice, broadcast from the bridge, was perfectly calm. "Distribute the remaining targets. Salvo... when ready."

  On the bridge of the Fenn flagship, Admiral Kushira and his officers watched with bated breath as the drama unfolded. Their small fleet, like a pack of wolves, was already preparing for a desperate attack, but the order from the Russians, received through the attaché, was clear: "Maintain your distance. You are the bait. The hammer will strike from the heavens."

  —"What are those fiery arrows?!" a young lookout in the crow's nest suddenly shrieked, his voice breaking with a mixture of terror and reverent awe. He was pointing with a trembling hand not at the enemy fleet, but far beyond it, into the sky.

  Everyone on the decks, from the admiral to the common sailor, threw their heads back. High, high above, leaving behind thick, perfectly straight white plumes, eight dark, cigar-shaped objects were hurtling through the air at an unimaginable, divine speed. The sight was so unreal, so alien to their world, that even the most experienced sailors were frozen in a stupor, unable to find an explanation for it within the confines of their own reality.

  The ships of the Parpaldia Empire, those majestic wooden fortresses, were the pinnacle of the art of their time. Their elegant, ornately carved hulls, their tall, proud masts, and their dozens of magical cannons reflected a worldview that seemed unshakable and eternal. But in the face of these swift, soulless, and utterly deadly "arrows," all their proud heritage, all their history of naval victories, in a single instant, became defenseless, obsolete, and pathetic.

  A minute passed. A minute that, for many on board the Parpaldian ships, stretched into an eternity of torture. The supersonic missiles, flying at an extremely low altitude just above the water, were invisible and inaudible to them until the very last moment.

  And then, the first missile found its target. The hundred-gun flagship ship-of-the-line Phishanus.

  At first, the crew heard a rising, air-tearing roar, like the cry of a mythical beast. And in the next split second, the projectile, traveling at twice the speed of sound, slammed into its side. The warhead of the "Moskit," possessing a monstrous kinetic energy, tore through the wooden hull and the enchanted plating as easily as a needle pierces parchment. The missile did not explode at once. It ripped through several decks and detonated in the very heart of the ship, in the powder magazine, which was packed to the brim with barrels of unstable magical gunpowder.

  A deafening, blindingly bright, monstrous explosion, which seemed to crack the very sky, turned the pride of the imperial fleet into a gigantic, pulsating fireball. Its tall masts, like dry matchsticks, snapped with a horrific crack and were thrown into the air. The entire central part of the deck, along with Admiral Poquetoire and his entire staff, was instantly vaporized.

  —"Impossible…" whispered Kushira, the commander of the Fenn fleet, instinctively ducking from the shockwave, which, like the blow of a giant hammer, reached even them. His hands were trembling, and a primal terror was frozen in his eyes. He, who was accustomed to cannon duels and desperate boarding actions, could not comprehend what had just happened. That single minute had changed everything he had ever known about naval warfare.

  One by one, the missiles found their targets. The terror of the seas, the Phishanus armada of Parpaldia, was utterly powerless. Over the course of a few, almost surreal minutes, the fleet that had struck fear into half the world was reduced to a group of helplessly burning hulks, from which the screams of the dying could be heard.

  Kushira, the first to recover from the shock, realized—this was their chance. Their only chance, granted to them by new, terrifying gods.

  —"ALL SAILS! TO THE OARS! PREPARE TO BOARD!" he roared, and his voice, raw but full of a rage and a newfound hope, carried over his small flotilla. "FORWARD! FOR FENN!"

  Obeying the command, the thirteen nimble "Kohaya" ships, taking advantage of the panic and chaos that reigned on the surviving, burning imperial vessels, charged into the attack, like a school of piranhas that had scented blood.

  The result was stunning. The demoralized, deafened, and bewildered Parpaldian sailors were unable to offer any organized resistance. In a series of short and brutal boarding actions, the Fenn warriors managed to capture several of the surviving captains and hundreds of prisoners. The rest, who tried to escape in the water, were mercilessly finished off with arrows and spears.

  When the destroyer Nastoychivyy, majestically cutting through the waves, approached the scene of the slaughter, the Fenn sailors, having ceased their fight, froze in a reverent awe. The sight of this giant, gray, steel monster, covered in incomprehensible weapons and from which the faint smell of powder and hot metal still emanated, inspired no less awe than the victory they had just won.

  The captive Parpaldian officers—disheveled, humiliated, and utterly broken—were, without any ceremony, and at the gunpoints of the naval infantry, transferred to the Russian ship. Their subsequent fate remained unknown to the Fenn, becoming another frightening legend about these enigmatic, powerful, and merciless newcomers from the east.