Russian Federation. Moscow. The Kremlin.

  The President of the Russian Federation sat behind a massive oak desk. His face was calm, but his gaze was heavy and focused. A tense silence reigned in the room at that moment. He looked over the Ministers of Internal Affairs and Defense, and the Director of the FSB, studying each of them carefully. The long silence weighed on everyone present, creating an atmosphere of unspeakable anxiety. Nothing disturbed the moment except the faint pulsing of blood in their temples and the quiet rustle of paper documents that no one dared to turn over. A sense of inevitability hung in the air, as if each of them knew that something completely unimaginable had just happened.

  I want to know who... Use any methods necessary, the President said, his voice cold. Every syllable landed with heavy impact. I want to see a list. I want to know who is behind this.

  His gaze seemed to pierce through each of them, dragging their internal doubts to the surface. His attention was focused on the ministers and the FSB Director, whose faces wore expressions of tense anticipation. Only a barely visible vein on the President's forehead and the graying hair at his temples betrayed the internal concern he was diligently trying to hide.

  Yes, sir, Comrade Commander-in-Chief! the ministers barked in unison, as if on command. Their voices held a note of alarm, yet also unavoidable respect.

  The President gave a curt nod and turned his gaze back to the FSB Director.

  Viktor Chernov, your boys performed with honor, he said, snapping the man out of his thoughts. Give me the names of everyone who participated in the assault. I will sign a decree for their commendations.

  The FSB Director, Viktor Chernov, nodded briefly, but something flickered in his eyes that could not be hidden—anxiety. This event had become a harsh lesson for him, seared into his memory like a stinging, sobering slap in the face. It showed everyone present that no one is immune to mistakes, and nothing is a guarantee of safety.

  A whirlwind of thoughts raced through his mind: It doesn't matter, we will find everyone involved. We will find them, and then...

  Yes, sir, he said, the tension in his voice betraying how ill at ease he felt.

  The President scanned the room one last time, his eyes remaining serious for a moment longer before he spoke:

  That is all. You are dismissed...

  Second Civilized Region. Superpower Mu. Port City of Maekal.

  One year after the fall of Parpaldia.

  A year had passed since the world shuddered at the news from the east. Relations between the Russian Federation and Mu, cemented by fear of the unknown and a thirst for progress, had steadily warmed, transforming from cautious allyship into a full-fledged economic symbiosis.

  Maekal, once a respectable but sleepy port city frozen in the aesthetics of early industrialism, found itself at the epicenter of a real storm. Only this was not a storm of war, but a storm of capital. Russian business, predatory, pragmatic, and incredibly efficient, had reached the threshold of this world. Entrepreneurs, from small shuttle traders to representatives of major retail chains, flooded through the open gates, bringing with them goods that looked to the locals like artifacts from the future.

  The cityscape changed before their eyes. Bright, unnaturally clean signs in two languages shone on the soot-stained brick facades of Victorian buildings. Shop windows, previously filled with solid but coarse goods from local manufactories, now burst with unseen curiosities.

  Plastic bottles with carbonated drinks were the first shock. Transparent, light, unbreakable vessels filled with liquids of acidic colors, the taste of which exploded in the mouth with a thousand prickly bubbles. "Tarkhun", "Baikal", "Duchess"—these words sounded on the streets of Maekal like incantations.

  Then came the clothes. Bright synthetic fabrics, zippers instead of buttons, sneakers instead of leather boots—Russian light industry, reoriented for export, caused a sensation. Perfumery, cosmetics, and, of course, books—translated into the Mu language, printed on the whitest paper in soft glossy covers, they became a status symbol.

  The guttural cries of barkers came from everywhere:

  "Russian novelty! Only today and only here!"

  Board games and playing cards with plastic coating became a real social epidemic. In cozy courtyards and smoky port taverns, where dice were previously played for coppers, people now passionately battled in "Monopoly" or "Mafia." What for Russians was a forgotten leisure from the past, for the residents of Mu became a window into a new culture of competition and strategy. The wind of change blew the dust of centuries from the alleys of Maekal, filling the hearts of residents with a mixture of childlike delight and anxious curiosity before the newcomers.

  While business changed everyday life, the macroeconomy of Mu experienced a tectonic shift. The city was turning into the main trade gateway of the planet. Giant, hundred-meter Russian container ships entered the bay with the majestic slowness of whales. Beside their steel sides, towering above the water like fortress walls, the wooden and riveted merchant ships of Mu and other countries seemed like frail fishing boats. Port cranes couldn't cope, so the Russians brought their own—powerful portal monsters capable of unloading a hold in hours, not days.

  Super-profits from the transit of goods between the technological giant (Russia) and the rich but archaic First Civilized Region (Mirishial) filled Mu's treasury with gold. But gold brought dependence.

  However, the most visible symbol of the new era was not trade, but the force that protected it.

  In the outer roadstead, predatorily slicing waves with their stems, stood two Project 20380 corvettes—the Sovershenny and the Gromkiy of the Pacific Fleet (which in this world had simply become the "Eastern"). Their angular "stealth" silhouettes, concealing missile armament, looked alien against the backdrop of sails and smokestacks. They didn't smoke, didn't make noise, and seemed like sleeping predators. But every sailor in the port knew: these two small ships were capable of destroying the entire combined pirate fleet of the Uncivilized Lands alone, without weighing anchor. It was a silent but intelligible reminder: Russia protects its investments.

  The port buzzed and transformed. The hammering of pneumatic hammers, the screech of angle grinders, the rumble of diesel generators—Russian engineers were rebuilding the infrastructure to their standards. Local workers, who had swapped burlap robes for bright high-visibility vests and helmets, proudly mastered the operation of forklifts, feeling involved in the great sacrament of Technology.

  Changes touched the sky as well. It had always been lively over Maekal—Mu biplanes, rare merchant wyverns. But now, other birds traced their perfectly straight white lines in the azure. Silver Tu-214 and Il-96 airliners, coming in for landing at the modernized international airport, drowned out everything below with their roar. Mu airfields, which previously accepted only "plywood shelves," were now hastily reinforced with concrete to withstand the weight of multi-ton jet machines.

  The Superpower Mu was rapidly, greedily, and irrevocably being drawn into Russia's orbit of influence, not even noticing how its own sovereignty was dissolving in comfort, security, and cheap consumer goods from another world. And on the horizon, invisible for now behind the glitter of the "Russian miracle," the darkness of a new, great war was already thickening.

  The Villa of Retired Admiral Crowley. District "Old Cliff".

  In one of the old mansions built of dark, wind-salted stone, whose windows overlooked the bay shining with thousands of new lights, sat an elderly man. In his hands, accustomed to the hilt of a dirk and a helm, now rested a heavy crystal glass filled with amber liquid. Admiral Crowley, a hero of past naval campaigns, was slowly, with the pleasure of a connoisseur, sipping aged Krasnodar cognac of the Fanagoria brand. The Russians brought this drink as a diplomatic gift, and Crowley, initially skeptical of the "barbarian swill," was forced to admit: this complex bouquet of oak, vanilla, and southern sun was magnificent.

  In the room, filled with models of sailing ships and old globes, a cozy, almost museum-like silence reigned, contrasting with the distant hum of diesel engines and the clanking of port cranes coming from outside.

  The man, swaying in a rocking chair, closed his eyes and quietly said:

  "The world has gone mad. Finally and irrevocably. My native Maekal has become unrecognizable over this year."

  He was in no hurry to move. His gaze fixed on the window, where against the sunset, giant letters "РЖД" (Russian Railways) burned over the new terminal. A mixture of surprise, professional respect, and deep, hidden fear could be read in his eyes. What was happening around him was inexplicable to a man of his generation. What once seemed unshakable—coal, steam, sails—was now turning into museum exhibits. New technologies penetrated every corner, changing not only the streets but the very essence of time.

  The tapping of heels in the corridor made him turn around. The door flew open, letting fresh air and a young girl in a stylish eco-leather jacket into the room.

  "Grandpa! Are you here?"

  The old man broke away from his reflections, and the shadow of anxiety on his face was replaced by softness.

  "Mira... You've finally arrived," he said with a slight smile, gesturing for her to sit nearby. "How was your trip from the capital? How is... the new car?"

  "Grandpa, it's fantastic! Everything is good!" she replied, literally falling into the adjacent chair and tossing a key with a rook emblem onto the table. "This Russian car... Lada Vesta Cross, I think? It is simply a miracle of engineering thought! It is smooth, quiet, music plays inside by itself... Our steam carriages don't even stand close! It wasn't for nothing that I learned to drive from Russian instructors for three months."

  Crowley chuckled, took a bottle of collectible wine from the cabinet for his granddaughter (cognac was too strong for a young lady), and filled a glass.

  "It is praiseworthy that you reach for the new," he said, watching gleams of delight dance in her eyes. "But tell me... What is happening in the capital? How is Otaheit? I haven't been there since my retirement."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  The girl's gaze became a bit more serious; delight gave way to thoughtfulness. She sipped the wine and looked at her grandfather.

  "Otaheit... It's even more complicated there, Grandpa. There is too much that is new. The place is unrecognizable. You are right when you say the world has gone mad. There are traffic jams, Grandpa. Real traffic jams of cars!"

  She leaned forward.

  "You know, our Government sees a lifeline in this trade. We are becoming the main intermediary, a hub between Russia and the rest of the world. And you know what is interesting?"—anxiety sounded in her voice. "It attracts not only the wealthy, the Lords of the Council. It breaks class barriers. Yesterday I saw a simple merchant, who made a fortune reselling Russian canned goods, buy himself a UAZ—a car that is bigger and more powerful than a Duke's carriage! Our streets have filled with people who no longer look under their feet. They look at shop windows."

  She paused to catch her breath. The Admiral slowly shook his head, twirling the glass of cognac in his hands.

  "Yes... They see the benefit. Shiny toys. Comfort," he said dully. "But on the other hand... who could have thought that trade would change everything around us faster than war? It changes not only the economy, Mira. It changes the soul of the city. We are becoming dependent. We drink their drinks, drive their cars, wear their clothes..."

  Due to avalanche-like trade deals with Russia, Maekal and Otaheit were turning into a showcase of the Russian lifestyle. The aristocracy, military, and wealthy merchants literally swept up Russian-made cars, despite their high cost, maintenance difficulties, and predatory prices for gasoline, which had to be imported by Rosneft tankers.

  However, behind this glitter lay the iron, cold logic of Moscow.

  A strictest "Law on Prevention of Leakage of Modern Technologies", personally signed by the President of the Russian Federation, applied to all military and modern scientific technologies (microprocessors, aviation turbines, composite armor, communication systems).

  The Russians sold cars with internal combustion engines—century-old technology by Earth standards, but revolutionary here. But they categorically refused to sell the machine tools for producing these engines. They sold radios, but not encryption technologies.

  Russia kept its finger on the pulse, allowing the world of Mu to play in the sandbox with comfortable toys of the 21st century, but leaving the real instruments of power—weapons and fundamental science—exclusively in its own hands.

  The Gra-Valkas Empire. Imperial Capital — Ragna.

  The Audience Hall in the Imperial Palace gleamed with a luxury worthy of the most majestic ruler. High vaults were supported by massive columns adorned with bas-reliefs depicting the Empire's victories. The floors, laid with black marble, reflected the soft light of crystal chandeliers, creating an atmosphere of solemn austerity. Here, every word sounded like a decree of fate.

  "Caesar, Mirkenses, the Conference of the Leaders of the 11 Nations will begin soon. How are the preparations progressing?" the Emperor's voice sounded authoritative, but without unnecessary tension.

  "Your Imperial Majesty, everything is ready. We await your direct order," the military commanders reported in unison, pressing their hands to their chests in a gesture of absolute submission.

  Among those gathered, Mopaul, the Chief of the Foreign Affairs Bureau, stood out.

  "Your Imperial Majesty," he began with a smirk, "with this plan, all the insignificants of this world will fall at your feet. Our superiority will be absolute."

  His words were drowned out by a general hum of approval, but suddenly, another voice spoke up, disrupting the collective mood.

  "I have concerns regarding two problems, honorable gentlemen," it sounded firm, almost challenging. All heads turned to Hamidall, the Chief of the Intelligence and Information Warfare Bureau. His face remained calm, but tension could be read in his eyes.

  The Emperor raised an eyebrow slightly and inclined his head, allowing him to continue.

  "Yes, Hamidall?" he asked with a faint shadow of curiosity. "And what might those be?"

  "As I stated, we have two problems: the Holy Mirishial Empire and the Russian Federation. In the former, I have lost six reconnaissance groups, and seven have not yet even reached the Russian Federation. Here are the detailed reports on the first and second problems; please familiarize yourself with them," said the Head of the Intelligence Bureau.

  Caesar, a prominent representative of the military elite, could not restrain himself. His laughter echoed through the hall, filling it with sharp notes of disdain.

  "Ah-ha-ha, Hamidall, you might infect us with your unfounded paranoia!" he said, laughing. "It is out of the question that we would lag behind these savages technologically! Nothing and no one in this world can stop the advance of His Imperial Majesty!"

  But Hamidall did not intend to back down. His face flushed red, and his voice became sharp, almost shouting.

  "Do you hear me, Caesar?! I lost thirteen! Thirteen groups of highly trained operatives! These are unheard-of losses compared to the nonentities we toyed with before! Read the reports! They are written in the blood and sweat of my men. The Russian and Mirishial militaries have a multitude of projects that we only have on paper, and there are even some that aren't even in our plans yet! Show at least a little responsibility and read them, Caesar. If we start a combat operation right now, we will pay dearly for it later!"

  The intelligence officer practically leaped from his chair, staring at Caesar with such fire in his eyes that the other meeting participants involuntarily averted their gazes. But Caesar, already ready to get personal, was stopped by a sudden movement from the Emperor. His hand, raised in a silent gesture, forced both of them to sink back into their seats.

  "I heard you, Hamidall," the Emperor's voice sounded calm but commanding. "Detail everything related to the Holy Mirishial Empire and Russia in a report and submit it to my Chancellery. Kurtz, accept the documents and hand them to me personally."

  "It will be done, Your Imperial Majesty," Hamidall stood and placed his hand on his chest, bowing his head slightly. The Chief Secretary of the Imperial Chancellery repeated the gesture after him.

  The Emperor thought for a moment, looking over those present.

  "We have taken Hamidall's concerns into account, but the plan remains in effect. Caesar! My new order is this: do not dare attack ships with the identification marks indicated in the report. Mopaull! Contact the Russian representatives. For the rest of you, the tasks remain the same."

  "It shall be done, Your Imperial Majesty!" they barked in unison, placing their hands on their chests.

  "With that, the meeting is adjourned..." the herald announced, and as soon as his words rang out, the cream of Gra-Valkan society began to leave the hall.

  The Holy Mirishial Empire. Port City of Cartalpas.

  Cartalpas was one of the largest port cities of the Holy Mirishial Empire, second in size only to the capital. Its architecture was a fusion of majestic and modern structures: massive buildings of glass and magically reinforced stone curved smoothly, adorned with abstract patterns and decorative elements. A sense of grandeur and a striving for greatness was felt everywhere, yet simultaneously, there was a restrained austerity and practicality. Despite its modernity, the technologies upon which the Mirishial Empire was based appeared somewhat archaic; magical devices similar to electrical mechanisms, Manacomms, and other magical instruments were used to manage production and maintain the city's infrastructure.

  Cartalpas itself was adorned with massive port facilities that created an impression of power and organization. From time to time, groups of workers could be seen on the city streets, diligently tidying up every corner, while bright flags and banners fluttered atop the buildings. A festive atmosphere hung in the air as delegations from various countries began to arrive for the Conference of the Leaders of 11 Nations.

  The city's Mayor felt his head starting to throb again from the pressure. Nothing was left to chance. Every corner had been thoroughly scrubbed, every street was ready to receive high-ranking guests. All vagrants and undesirable elements had been neatly removed, and flags and banners welcoming the important delegations were hung from the buildings. Everything was going according to plan, but the Mayor and his staff understood that their work was not just important—it was vital for maintaining order and the successful conduct of such a momentous event.

  "The delegation of the Kingdom of Torquia from the First Civilized Region has arrived! Seven ships of the line and one magical flagship," the announcer's voice boomed from the Manacomm, his words echoing through the air. The light breeze was pierced by the sounds of the upcoming event, as if the city of Cartalpas itself sighed in anticipation.

  People watched from every corner of the pier and streets, their eyes sparkling with curiosity and delight, fixed on the horizon where majestic ships hung like ornaments, ready to enter the harbor.

  A group consisting of a guide and escorts set out to meet the delegation.

  "The delegation of the Principality of Agartha from the First Region has arrived! Six of the newest magical warships and two civilian vessels."

  The announcer and Vice Admiral Bronze attended this event with great pleasure. Each country participating in the gathering of powerful nations made no secret of its military achievements, striving to demonstrate its strength and power. One could say it was a sort of competition between nations. For Bronze, however, it was like attending a military parade—he derived immense pleasure from the spectacle.

  "These little boats don't impress me," Bronze muttered under his breath, continuing to observe the fleets. "Compared to the Magical Zero Fleet, this is worthless..."

  Recent events surfaced in his memory; Bronze had only recently witnessed the maneuvers of the Zero Fleet, conducted by Mirishial sailors as part of exercises with the western island powers. Back then, holding his breath, he had anticipated a true sensation. Bronze dreamed of seeing the power of fleets from other regions—the might of two transferred nations: the Gra-Valkas Empire, which had consumed Leifor, and the Russian Federation, which had destroyed the Lion of the Third Civilized Region, the Parpaldia Empire, and split it into seventy-two independent states.

  "A ship from the Gra-Valkas Empire has arrived."

  Bronze raised his head. A ship had indeed appeared on the horizon. No, not a ship—it was something resembling a sea fortress. Its dimensions were so incredible that it was impossible to comprehend how such a thing could even stay afloat.

  "Good Lord... what is that?!" Bronze grabbed his binoculars, trying to get a better look at the approaching colossus. It was a super-dreadnought of the Atlastar class—the pride of the Gra-Valkas Empire. Even knowing of its existence, he could not believe his eyes.

  The Atlastar slowly approached the pier, its shadow covering the ships of Torquia and Agartha. The sailing ships of the line now looked like toy models against the backdrop of this maritime giant.

  Onlookers on the pier froze in shock. Some just stood there with their mouths open, unable to tear their gaze away from the dreadnought.

  But the spectators had barely had time to digest what they saw when a commotion rose in the port once again.

  "Mr. Bronze! The delegation from the Russian Federation is arriving!" rang out the voice of an assistant holding a Manacomm. Bronze tore his gaze away from the Atlastar with difficulty, trying to come to his senses.

  "W-What is that?!" Bronze whispered in shock, taking the binoculars from his assistant's hands. The state of shock in his body intensified with every moment. In his eyes stood something that could have been a nightmare—an armada he had absolutely not expected to see. If the assistant hadn't slid a chair over, he probably would have just fallen down.

  "The Russian delegation has arrived! Twenty ships, I cannot give them a classification," the assistant said, his words carrying immeasurable horror and amazement.

  Russian vessels appeared on the horizon. Among them were twenty ships of various types, including tankers. The flagship was the nuclear cruiser Pyotr Velikiy. The squadron also included two nuclear aircraft-carrying cruisers and three aircraft carriers. After a short while, squadrons of MiG-29 fighters flew over the port city, leaving condensation trails behind them.

  Their roar, tearing through the air, was like the roar of ancient dragons. These war machines, created based on technologies that were still beyond human imagination here, seemed the embodiment of power and destruction.

  "This is... impossible..." Bronze muttered, lowering his binoculars. He was shaken to the core.

  Russia's ships were approaching, and the crowd on the pier came alive again, seized by a mixture of delight and fear. The sailors from Torquia and Agartha were now simply silent from shock, realizing the disparity in capabilities. The sailors of the Atlastar, standing on the deck of their ship, just silently smoked their cigarettes, watching the planes flying in the sky. None of them could find the words to express their emotions. Some trembled with fear, others with admiration.

  "The delegation of the Russian Federation from the East has arrived!" the Manacomm announced again. Its words resonated in the ears of the townspeople like thunder in a cloudless sky.

  The Russian Federation had prepared for this event with all seriousness, understanding that the show of force had to be made on a maximum scale. Based on data from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the General Staff of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation, it was decided to send a powerful tactical group, as well as to prepare nuclear submarines to ensure their power at any distance, leaving them as an unseen threat.

  "Excellent, the first impression is better than expected," said one of the representatives of the diplomatic mission, observing the scene. "I hope these savages finally understand who we are if we are left untouched."

  "And if they don't, things are going to get ugly," another representative chuckled in response, checking his equipment. "Readiness in five minutes."

  "Roger that," the first representative replied.