The Principality of Qua-Toyne. The Port City of Maihark.

  The Principality of Qua-Toyne, spread across the northeast of the continent of Rodenius, was an anomaly, a natural wonder that geographers and agronomists from the Civilized Lands would have considered heresy. Legends told that in ancient times, during the War with the Demons, a nameless Goddess of Fertility had sacrificed her divine essence to save this land from eternal corruption. Her power, having dissolved into the earth, created a unique ecosystem: the soil here was saturated with natural elements that repelled pests, and the native plants had developed phytoncides that suppressed the growth of weeds. Even a seed tossed carelessly onto the ground would yield a harvest. This land was not merely fertile—it was alive and benevolent. Thanks to this, Qua-Toyne had achieved complete food self-sufficiency—a concept almost unknown in other corners of the world, where famine was the constant companion of the common people.

  In the northeast of this agrarian paradise, where the river met the sea, lay the port city of Maihark—the jewel and the treasury of the principality. Sturdy stone shops and warehouses lined the cobbled streets, which were polished to a shine by hooves and boots. The air was saturated with the aroma of the salty breeze, freshly caught fish, spices from the southern lands, and hot bread. Bustling beastfolk merchants in colorful attire struck deals with stern Dwarven artisans, while elven merchants haggled over precious gems with unruffled composure. Today, as always, the city was alive with its own rhythm—noisy, chaotic, but at its heart, peaceful. However, beneath this surface, an unseen tension was already flowing. People, without understanding why, kept casting anxious glances toward the sky, as if expecting a thunderstorm on a clear day.

  Suddenly, the heavy oak door of a barracks burst open with a crash. A young woman of about twenty-eight shot out of it like an arrow loosed from a bow. This was Ine, Captain of the Maihark Knightly Defense Corps. Her long black hair had escaped from beneath a silver diadem that served as her insignia of rank. At the tips of her ears—slightly too long, slightly too pointed for a full-blooded human—the diadem's chain caught the morning light. She had learned long ago to ignore the looks that detail sometimes earned her in the capital. Here, in Maihark, no one looked twice. Here, half the garrison was something other than purely human, and the city had always been better for it. Beneath her unclasped cloak, a steel cuirass was visible, fitted snugly to her body, along with high leather boots and a war belt from which a heavy sword hung in its scabbard. A large composite bow was secured to her back. Behind her, their faces etched with alarm, ran her knights—the disciplined, battle-hardened city guard. Their appearance—steel armor, drawn blades—was so alien against the backdrop of the peaceful city that passersby instinctively made way. Without wasting a second, the unit rushed toward the nearest staircase leading to the top of the fortress wall.

  Upon reaching the twenty-meter-high ramparts, the soldiers, breathing heavily, took up their positions. Ine, ignoring her own ragged breath, pressed a hand to the vibrating manacomm amulet at her throat. Fragments of the report from the 6th squadron still echoed in her memory: "…unbelievable speed… wyverns can't keep up… heading straight for you…". What could it be? What Lourian weapon was capable of this? She frantically ran through every known tactical development of her neighbors, but nothing fit the description.

  She turned to her lieutenants. Her voice was calm, but it rang with the clarity of steel.

  "According to the air reconnaissance report, an unidentified object is approaching the city at a speed that exceeds the capabilities of our wyverns. All posts—full combat readiness! Archers—take up positions on the towers and walls!"

  The knights instantly fanned out along the perimeter, drawing the strings of their long yew bows. Their discipline was impeccable, but even the most seasoned veterans could not hide their unease as their eyes remained fixed on the eastern sky.

  "How is it so fast? What power propels this object?" Ine mused, assessing the situation. She knew that a wyvern was the fastest living creature in the skies of Rodenius. To surpass its speed would require magic of the highest order, accessible perhaps only to the archmages of the superpowers. Perhaps Louria had received clandestine support from the Parpaldia Empire? Even if this was just a reconnaissance mission, the very means by which it was being conducted was already a display of overwhelming force.

  Suddenly, the watchman on the eastern tower cried out, pointing at the sky:

  "I see it! It's approaching!"

  Every head whipped around. What had been a barely visible dot a moment before grew rapidly, taking shape. It was not a dragon, nor was it a bird. It was a colossal man-made machine, slicing through the clouds with an unnatural, terrifying speed. Reaching the airspace over the city, it banked steeply, drawing a wide, relentless orbit at an altitude unreachable by arrows. It did not—could not—stop or hover; its flight was maintained by sheer, overwhelming forward momentum. And the sound... the initial low hum quickly swelled into an ear-shattering, chest-crushing mechanical roar that shook the ancient stones of the walls and vibrated directly into their bones. On its massive swept wings, crimson five-pointed stars flashed vividly.

  What… is that?" Ine gasped, practically forced to shout over the deafening thunder of the four engines. The metal leviathan tore through the sky, its absolute indifference and overwhelming roar instilling a primal, paralyzing terror.

  That sound was the first thing to shatter the peaceful flow of life below. The townspeople, first with curiosity and then with rising terror, raised their heads to the sky. Suddenly, a wave of panic surged through the crowd. Someone screamed and bolted for their house, slamming the shutters closed. Others scrambled desperately through the streets, searching for cover. Animals, driven mad by the unfamiliar sound, tore at their tethers. Riding birds scattered with wild cries, throwing their riders, while horses overturned carts. The city plunged into chaos.

  "What in the hells is that thing?!"

  "A monster! A sky monster!"

  "Demon magic!"

  The man-made object, as if satisfied with the effect it had produced, and without firing a single shot, smoothly changed its course and headed back in the direction from which it had come, soon disappearing over the horizon. Ine remained on the wall, her fists clenched. Relief and a chilling premonition warred within her. It hadn't attacked. Not yet. But it had demonstrated that it could appear whenever and wherever it pleased. And they had absolutely nothing to stop it. This was not mere reconnaissance. It was a demonstration of power. A message. And Ine understood its meaning perfectly: "Your sky is no longer yours."

  Meanwhile, Aboard the Tu-142M3 Long-Range Anti-Submarine Aircraft, Side Number 77-Red.

  Inside the pressurized combat control compartment, a professional atmosphere reigned, woven from the steady hum of the onboard systems and muffled conversations over the intercom. Major Alexei Vorontsov, the aircraft commander, studied the data feeding into his multi-function display. The crew's faces betrayed no emotion, despite the fact that they had just seen a real dragon. The results of the main phase of the reconnaissance mission had exceeded all expectations.

  "Commander, the full aerial photography cycle is complete. AFA-41/10 cameras were used. The data has been compressed and transmitted via secure channel to the flagship, the Amphibious Assault Ship Priboy," reported Lieutenant Sizov, the reconnaissance systems operator. On his screen was a frozen, detailed image of the port city, taken from an altitude of seven thousand meters.

  Vorontsov nodded, analyzing the image. The clear geometry of the fortress walls, the dense urban development, a harbor filled with wooden sailing ships. This was not just a village. This was a fully-fledged, well-fortified city—the first sign of an organized civilization in this new world.

  "Excellent, Lieutenant. Is the image quality sufficient for a preliminary analysis?"

  "More than sufficient, Commander. We can make out individual figures on the walls. The architecture… I'd say late medieval, European type. The fortifications are serious, with bastions. No signs of industrial activity or electricity."

  "Understood. Navigator, we're beginning the second pass. Descending to five thousand. Activate the 'Neman' side-looking airborne radar and the 'Angara' electronic intelligence system. I need data on any energy or communication sources."

  "Descending to five thousand!" responded Captain Ignatyev, banking the aircraft into a gentle turn.

  The enormous aircraft, like a giant osprey, began its descent, tracing a wide arc over the city. Now, the details became even clearer. Movement erupted on the walls and towers. Hundreds of tiny figures, clad in armor, were scrambling to take up positions. Their actions were chaotic, but underscored by a clear sense of panic.

  The co-pilot, Captain Boris Belov, smirked as he observed the scene through the optical system.

  "Alexei, just look at them. It looks like they're seriously preparing to shoot us down. Archers on the walls, they're deploying ballistae…"

  Vorontsov took the co-pilot's place, glancing at the high-resolution stabilization screens. Even from this altitude, the optics delivered a clear tactical picture. He saw hundreds of tiny, armored figures swarming chaotically along the stone ramparts, aiming ballistae and longbows directly at the empty sky in a completely futile combat formation. The sheer desperation in their synchronized response was obvious.

  "They're acting according to their own protocols, Boris. They simply cannot comprehend our speed, our altitude, or the fact that their arrows will turn to dust before they've even covered a third of the distance to us."

  "I almost feel sorry for them," Belov murmured. "Like primitives with spears against a tank."

  "Exactly," Vorontsov replied gravely. "And that's precisely why we must not give them any reason to be afraid. We are scouts, not punishers. Our mission is to gather information, not to demonstrate our power. Any aggressive action on our part now could lead to a war we are not ready for."

  He took the controls again. The plane flew on steadily, ignoring the commotion below.

  "Sizov, anything from the 'Angara' system?"

  "Negative, Commander. The airwaves are clean. No radio signals, no energy spikes."

  "Acknowledged. Data collection complete. Climbing, ascending to flight level eight thousand. Course set for base."

  "Course set for base!"

  The Tu-142M3, its mission accomplished, banked smoothly and, leaving behind only the drone of its engines, turned and began to head for the northeast. Below, on the walls of Maihark, the knights and townspeople watched with astonishment and relief as the giant man-made monster, having done them no harm, dissolved into the clouds. They did not know that this day would be forever recorded in their history. And aboard the aircraft, analyzing the data they had gathered, the crew understood that their history—the story of Russia in a new world—was only just beginning. And the first contact, fortunately, had been made without a single shot fired.

  Central Calendar Year 1639, Month 1, Day 27.

  Calendar of the Displacement: Year 0000, May, Day 13.

  Principality of Qua-Toyne. Second Fleet Headquarters, Port Maihark.

  The air at the Maihark naval base was thick and heavy, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. For three days, a tension so palpable you could cut it with a knife had gripped the port. The cause was an incident that had already been entered into classified reports as the "Sky Spear Breakthrough." An unidentified man-made object had effortlessly breached their air patrols, ignored the elite 6th squadron, and performed a demonstrative flyover of the principality's main commercial city.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The fact that it had taken no aggressive action only deepened the anxiety. This had not been an attack. It had been a message. A demonstration of technological superiority so overwhelming that it was beyond comprehension. The high command in the capital was in a state of confusion: the object clearly did not belong to Louria, and the superpower of Parpaldia, for all its might, had never displayed such technology.

  The armed forces of Qua-Toyne were brought to the highest state of combat readiness. All seaworthy vessels of the Second Fleet were dispatched to sea. The 6th squadron tripled its patrol flights, their wyverns now carving circles in the sky around the clock, driving both themselves and their riders to the point of utter exhaustion.

  In the smoke-filled command room, which was buried under a clutter of maps and dispatches, the commander of the Second Fleet, Commander of the Defense command post of the Maihark Naval Base Admiral Nouka, was conducting yet another analysis of the situation. The reports arriving incessantly over the manacomms were depressingly monotonous: "Sector clear," "No enemy contact."

  "Commander, what is your assessment of the nature of this object?" The voice of a young lieutenant, laced with poorly concealed alarm, suddenly broke the admiral's contemplation.

  Nouka slowly released a plume of fragrant smoke, his eyes never leaving the map.

  "I didn't see it myself, Lieutenant. And in our line of work, you can only trust your own eyes. If the report had come from a single rider, I would have chalked it up to fatigue or a trick of the light. But it was seen by all twelve pilots of the 6th squadron. It was seen by hundreds of people in Maihark. And it was seen by Captain Ine and her knights. This object is real," he paused, tapping his pipe on the edge of an ashtray. "Now, for the analysis. To the east is the Sea of No Return. An emptiness. To the northeast, a scattering of small islands inhabited by fishermen. They have neither the resources nor the knowledge to create such a marvel. That leaves two possibilities: either this is a secret development of Louria or Parpaldia. But based on what we know of their arsenals, nothing fits the description. Their doctrines are based on magic and brute force, not on such… refined technology.

  "My intuition, forged in dozens of skirmishes, is screaming at me that this is a third party. Something entirely new."

  The lieutenant leaned forward. "And if it is? Does that help us or hurt us, Commander?"

  Nouka tapped his pipe on the ashtray and was quiet for a moment. On the wall behind him hung a tactical map of Rodenius. The western third—Louria's territory—was marked in red, and the red had been creeping eastward on every update for the past two years.

  "Louria has been preparing for six years," he said. "Their forges run day and night. Their navy has doubled. Every intelligence report we receive says the same thing: the offensive is coming, and when it does, Quila falls in a month and we fall in two. Qua-Toyne and Quila together cannot match them. We have known this for years and we have had no answer for it." He looked at the map. "If this object—this third party—is not hostile… then perhaps we have just been handed one."

  He fell silent again.

  "Although… there is an old legend told in the port taverns of Mu… about 'Demons from the Sky.' The sailors who told it were drunk, and I never paid it any attention." He picked up his pipe. "I find myself paying it attention now."

  At that moment, the door to the command room was flung open. A mana-communications operator burst into the room in a breach of protocol. His face was pale, his eyes wide with shock.

  "Commander! Urgent message from the picket ship Pima!"

  All eyes snapped to him. Nouka and his aide rose simultaneously, the tension in the room becoming almost tangible.

  "Report!" Nouka threw out the single word.

  The operator, trying to control the tremor in his voice, read the message from a slip of parchment:

  "'Large, unidentified vessel sighted. Visual contact. Coordinates: sixty kilometers north of Port Maihark. Commencing approach for identification and possible inspection.'"

  "A large vessel?" Nouka repeated. It was not what he had expected. A sky spear—and now a ship? Were they connected? "Captain Midori is in command of the Pima, correct? He is a cool-headed and experienced man. Relay this order to him: proceed with extreme caution. Identify the target, but avoid any and all provocations. Do not close to within their ballista range until the nature of the vessel is clear. Report every move. And emphasize this: the fate of the entire principality may now depend on his actions."

  "Yes, Admiral!" The operator saluted and rushed back to his post to transmit the order.

  A silence fell over the command room. Everyone understood: the moment of truth was near. The mystery of the Sky Spear was about to be unraveled. And no one knew whether that answer would bring salvation, or destruction.

  Principality of Qua-Toyne. 60 km North of Port Maihark.

  The picket ship Pima, flagship of the Second Fleet's patrol group, was sailing at full speed, cutting through the leaden waves. The sails set high on its masts greedily caught the gusting north wind while below, in the dim light of the rowing deck, a hundred oarsmen, drenched in sweat, struck the water in unison to the monotonous beat of a drum. The Pima was not just a ship—it was the pride of the fleet, a swift galley built for rapid attacks and reconnaissance. And it now raced toward the unknown.

  An atmosphere of intense concentration reigned on board. The crew moved with the seamless coordination of a single mechanism. The soldiers of the boarding party, in cuirasses and helmets polished to a brilliant shine, had taken their places on the upper deck, their spears forming a forest of steel. Along the sides of the ship, heavy pavises—full-body shields—had been set up for protection against enemy arrows. The crews of the massive ballistae had already loaded iron-tipped bolts and checked the tension of the bowstrings. Nearby stood sealed jars of flammable oil and braziers of hot coals—everything was ready for battle.

  Captain Midori, a veteran of dozens of naval skirmishes, did not take his dwarven-made spyglass from his eye. His face, weathered by salt winds, was unreadable, but a deep-seated anxiety lurked in his eyes.

  "First mate, report!"

  "We are at full speed, Captain! At this rate, we'll reach the target in…" the young officer, Lieutenant Kaito, faltered, glancing at the horizon again. "Captain, it… it isn't getting any closer. Or rather, we are getting closer, but it still seems incredibly distant."

  Midori lowered the spyglass. And then, it dawned on him. An incredible, absurd realization.

  "It's not just large. It's colossal. We've misjudged the distance from the very beginning. Our minds refuse to believe in such a scale, and so we instinctively assume it's closer than it actually is."

  When the Pima, having covered several more kilometers, finally closed to a distance for visual identification, even the most hardened sailors froze in reverent awe. Before them was not a floating fortress. Before them was a floating mountain forged from gray metal. Its hull rose from the water to the height of Maihark's fortress walls, and its length… its length was unimaginable. The vessel had no sails and no oars, yet it sat upon the water with unshakable stability, emitting a soft, low hum that seemed to vibrate through the water itself.

  "I… I've seen a one-hundred-gun ship-of-the-line from the Parpaldia Empire," whispered Kaito, who had trained in the Third Civilized Zone. "I thought that was the pinnacle of shipbuilding. But compared to… this… that ship-of-the-line is nothing but a fishing boat."

  Atop the metal giant, two flags flew from separate masts. The first was white, crossed by a diagonal blue saltire—clean and stark against the gray sky. The second was a vertical tricolor: white, blue, and red, the bands running top to bottom with a geometric precision that suggested a nation that took its symbols seriously. Neither appeared on any naval chart Midori had ever studied. Neither resembled the standards of Louria, Parpaldia, or any power in the Three Civilized Lands. They were simply flags from somewhere else entirely.

  Suddenly, a blinding beam of light flashed from the unknown vessel's side, blinking in their direction several times. The crew instinctively ducked, expecting a magical strike. But nothing happened. Then, a section of the giant's hull detached and, as if by magic, began to descend smoothly to the water, forming a wide platform. On it stood people who were waving their arms, signaling a lack of hostile intent.

  "What is this? A demonstration of magic?" Midori muttered, unable to believe his eyes. "Are they inviting us aboard?"

  "It would seem so, Captain," Kaito replied. "But it could be a trap."

  Midori thought for a moment. Admiral Nouka's orders had been clear: extreme caution. But to retreat now would be to fail the mission and remain forever in the dark. This ship and the Sky Spear were links in the same chain; he was certain of it.

  "I will go," his voice was firm. "I'll take the two best swordsmen, Goran and Fala. Lieutenant Kaito, you have command. If I do not return within the hour, or if they show any aggression—retreat at full speed and report to headquarters immediately. No heroics. The mission is to deliver the intelligence. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, Captain!" the officers responded in unison.

  As their launch approached the lowered platform, Midori and his men could appreciate the true scale of the giant. The hull, which had appeared smooth from a distance, was covered in rows of rivets and welded seams, all crafted with incomprehensible precision. They stepped ont

  They stepped onto the platform. It held steady beneath their boots—no flex, no give, no living wood shifting with the sea. Just metal, cold and absolute.

  Then it moved.

  Not a jolt, not a lurch—a smooth, mechanical ascent, as if the platform had decided to rise and the ocean's opinion on the matter was irrelevant. Goran grabbed the side railing with both hands. Fala went very still in the way that experienced soldiers go still when they've decided that any reaction would be undignified. Midori kept his hands at his sides and his face expressionless, which cost him more effort than the entire crossing had.

  The steel wall slid past them—close enough to touch, close enough to see the precision of every weld seam, every rivet head set flush and perfect into the gray hull. He had seen the work of Dwarven master-crafters. He had seen the shipyards of the Third Civilized Zone. None of it had prepared him for the idea that a surface this size could be this *even*.

  He looked down. The Pima, his ship—his fast, proud, well-maintained Pima—sat on the water sixty meters below and looked like something a child had carved from driftwood. Its oars were still deployed. Its crew was standing at the rails, watching him rise. From this height he could see the top of Lieutenant Kaito's head.

  The platform stopped. A door—if it could be called a door—slid open to one side.

  He had nineteen years of sea experience. He had survived three fleet engagements, one shipwreck, and a boarding action in which he had taken a sword thrust through the shoulder and kept fighting. He considered himself, with some justification, a man not easily undone.

  He stepped through the door and understood, with complete and sudden clarity, that his nineteen years had prepared him for a world that no longer existed.

  Combat Information Center (CIC), Amphibious Assault Ship Priboy

  In the dim light of the Combat Information Center, which was bathed in the cold glow of dozens of monitors, a focused silence reigned, broken only by the quiet hum of cooling systems and the muffled reports of the operators. On the massive tactical display in the center of the room, a lone icon blinked, classified as "Unknown Surface Target. Minimal Radar Cross-Section. No Thermal Signature. Speed – 8 knots."

  "Commander, the object has changed course and is closing on our position," reported the radar operator, Senior Lieutenant Markov.

  "I see it," responded Captain 1st Rank Orlov, the commanding officer of the Priboy. His gaze was fixed on the image from the long-range optical surveillance system. "They've acknowledged our light signal. It seems they're ready to make contact."

  An enlarged image of the target appeared on the CIC's main screen, and a flicker of astonishment crossed the faces of even the most seasoned officers. It was a long, narrow, wooden galley with a high prow and a bank of oars that struck the water in unison like the legs of a giant insect. A single mast with a large, square sail rose above the deck.

  "Purely wooden construction…" murmured one of the analysts sitting next to Dmitry Volkov. "Based on the design, it's analogous to a 15th-century Mediterranean galley."

  "Note the armaments," Volkov said quietly. "Pavise shields are lined up along the sides. On the bow and stern, there are structures resembling ballistae. And on the deck…"—the image zoomed in further—"…are no fewer than fifty men in metal armor with spears. This is not a merchant vessel. This is a warship."

  "Dmitry Igorevich, it's alone," Orlov noted. "And it's heading straight for us. Either they're incredibly brave, or they have absolutely no idea what they're up against."

  "Or both," Volkov replied. "This is their territory. We are the trespassers."

  "Detachment of a small object detected, type is a launch. It's approaching our ramp," the radar operator continued. "Three individuals on board. I have visual confirmation… armed with melee weapons, clad in armor."

  "Dmitry Igorevich," Orlov addressed Volkov again, "what's our plan of action?"

  "Calm and friendly," Volkov answered, his features drawn tightly in the cold glow of the tactical monitors. "But the Special Operations Forces (SOF) group must take position near the stern ramp in full combat gear. We don't know their intentions. Our reconnaissance aircraft, which they might have mistaken for a 'sky spear,' could have been perceived as an act of aggression when it flew over their city. They might even try to board us out of sheer desperation."

  Orlov offered a wry smile.

  "Board us? Well, that would be interesting." He turned to the communications officer. "All stations. Maintain Readiness Condition One. Do not engage without my command. The Marine detachment on the upper deck is to remain visible, but maintain their distance. Let them see that we are also armed, but that we are not a threat."

  In the CIC, everyone watched in silence as the small launch crossed the strip of water that separated two eras, two worlds.

  On one screen: three warriors in armor, rowing toward a steel giant. On another: the thermal signatures of the SOF group forming a loose perimeter near the ramp—visible, as ordered, but not aggressive. On a third screen, the materials analysis system was running its quiet assessment of the newcomers' weapons. The preliminary results had already drawn a small crowd of analysts around the station.

  "Iron content consistent with late medieval European metallurgy," the materials specialist, Senior Lieutenant Korolyova, read aloud from her display, her voice carrying the careful neutrality of someone trying not to sound excited. "Carbon ratio suggests charcoal smelting, no industrial processing. The blade geometry on the long sword is..." she paused, "...actually quite good. Whoever made these knew what they were doing."

  "They would need to," Volkov said, without looking up from his own screen. "In a world without firearms, the quality of your blade is the difference between living and dying. Of course they're good at it."

  On the main tactical display, the three thermal signatures of the small launch were now at the ramp. The contact icon updated: *Boarding initiated.*

  "Here we go," Orlov said quietly.

  No one spoke. In the CIC of the most advanced amphibious assault vessel in the Black Sea Fleet, two dozen trained professionals watched a feed of three men in iron armor step onto a hydraulic platform, and felt—without quite being able to explain why—that what happened in the next ten minutes would matter for a very long time.