Southern Continent Branchel. Deep dungeons beneath the Forbidden Range.

  Secret Hideout of the Clear Sky Sect.

  The gloomy, oppressive silence of the underground hall, hidden even from the eyes of official imperial intelligence, was broken only by the low-frequency hum of an illegally connected magic core. The gloom here was a tangible substance, trembling with the rhythmic pulse of ancient, forbidden runes. Walls of raw obsidian were pitted with crudely carved symbols of loyalty that bled violet light.

  The air was heavy, stale, saturated with the smell of centuries-old dust, burnt flesh, and the metallic taste of fanaticism. Instead of imperial grandeur, an atmosphere of sacrifice and madness reigned here. High vaults were supported by columns adorned not with the crests of Annonrial, but with images of winged beings tormenting themselves for the sake of ascension.

  Through the veil of dense magical fog, footsteps were heard. Not the proud gait of an imperial officer, but the quick, nervous step of a fanatic bearing good news.

  "Grand Master..."

  Karut froze at the edge of the ritual circle. He was dressed not in rich imperial robes, but in a coarse gray cassock worn over elements of ancient, corroded armor. But the most terrifying thing was his appearance from the back. Like all Annonrials, he should have had two wings. But now, rising majestically and eerily behind his back, was only one—a snow-white, angelic wing. In place of the second, black one, gaped an ugly, bumpy scar from a fire burn. A sign of renunciation of the "unclean" half of his blood to prove loyalty to the ancestors from Ravernal.

  Karut's voice trembled with religious ecstasy:

  "Our prayers have been heard. The Imperial Palace is still bogged down in its concerns after the Conference of Leaders of 11 Nations. But the Ancient Ones... they call to us. Magical resonance confirmed. One of the Beacons of Rebirth has awakened."

  The figure on the rough stone throne, hidden in deep shadow, stirred. The torchlight caught the mask hiding the face. The person sitting on the throne was also one-winged.

  "Where?" the voice sounded dull, distorted by the mask's magic, but rage seethed within it. "While the Emperor and his Council tremble for their seats and fear disturbing the 'world balance,' we must act."

  "The Rodenius continent. The Quilla sector, off the western coast of Rodenius," Karuth said quickly. His one eye (the other was hidden by a patch with a rune) burned with a fanatical fire. "The signal is weak. The lighthouse is damaged, but the self-healing systems are active."

  The Grand Master slowly squeezed the armrests of the throne, crushing the stone with his gauntleted hands.

  "The sphere of influence of the new barbarians from the East. The Russian Federation. Those soulless technocrats who dare to claim rights to this world... Dangerous. If the Emperor finds out we have begun to act, we will be executed before the Ancestors return."

  He stood up abruptly, and his single white wing spread wide, casting a long shadow.

  "But delay is a betrayal of the blood of Ravernal! We will outpace both our cowardly rulers, and the Emor lizards, and the Russian barbarians."

  The Grand Master approached Karut closely.

  "Listen to my command. Assemble the Atonement squad. Our very best warriors. Those who have already passed the Rite of Wing Purification. Equipment—stolen prototypes of MGZ-class Heavy Magic Armor. Full hermetic sealing, signature shielding. No imperial crests, no signs of Annonrial.

  And most importantly—weapons. Forget standard rods or swords. Arm them with Handheld Mage-Plasma Emitters Scorching Wind."

  "Experimental models for assault groups? They are... unstable, Master. And the firing range is short."

  "We do not need sniper fire; we need guaranteed death in close combat," the Grand Master cut him off. "Connect them to the MGZ armor reactors. These guns fire clumps of superheated magic plasma. They won't punch through armor like ship guns, but they will melt any human and his equipment."

  The Grand Master paused, pulling a box from under his robe containing ampoules inside which a black, viscous liquid boiled.

  "And take this. Ancestors' Blood."

  Karut gulped, looking at the elixir. It was a forbidden concentrate that increased strength tenfold but burned out the carrier's life force in a few hours.

  "We... will not return?"

  "Most likely, no. This is a one-way ticket," the Grand Master replied harshly. "The area is crawling with Russian barbarians. The risk of exposure is absolute. Annonrial is not yet ready for war with Russia, and if the Emperor finds out we provoked a conflict prematurely... Our duty is to do the job and disappear."

  The Grand Master's voice became hard as a hammer blow:

  "Mission: seize and activate the Beacon. At any cost. If the Russians or locals try to interfere—liquidation. No witnesses. No pity. And most importantly..."

  The Grand Master grabbed Karut by the shoulder, digging his fingers into his armor:

  "If the group is under threat of capture, injury, or death—immediate self-destruction. Activate the Hellfire thermal charges inside the armor. MGZ technology must not fall to the barbarians. But even more important are your bodies. Especially your backs. The Russians must not find a corpse with one white wing. They must not link us to Annonrial. You must turn into unidentifiable ash. Do you understand me, Karut? Not a feather, nor a bone to the enemy."

  Karut dropped to his knees, touching his forehead to the cold floor. He felt icy sweat trickling down his back, where the old scar from the severed wing ached. He understood: he was being sent not just to death, but into total oblivion, where even the memory of him would be erased for the sake of the Great Goal.

  "But how will we reach Quallagarat, Master?" Karut asked, still kneeling. "The skies are closed off by Imperial Guard patrols. The sea is teeming with Russian iron fish, which were rumored to be at the conference."

  The figure on the throne emitted a low, creaky chuckle.

  "Barbarian ships. They look for metal, the heat of engines, and the noise of propellers. They are proud of their science just like Mu, and that is their blindness. We will take a path that Ravernal paved before the ancestors of these humans learned to make fire."

  The Grand Master snapped his fingers. Deep in the hall, where the darkness was thickest, a tank filled with murky greenish liquid lit up. Inside floated something resembling an elongated, smooth sarcophagus of black chitin, looking like the body of a giant, eyeless deep-sea eel.

  "The Shadow Wanderer. A relic of the Age of Biomancy. It does not radiate mana outwardly. It has no beating heart. It moves by sucking in water and expelling it, like a mollusk, but silently to their ears. To the Russians, it will be just another large sea beast migrating north."

  The Master stood, and the shadow of his single wing covered Karut.

  "The journey will take three days. The Wanderer will deliver you to underwater caves off the coast of the island. There you must await the Wrath of the Elements."

  He handed Karut a black crystal.

  "This is the navigation key. It will lead you straight to the Beacon. Remember, Karut: once you leave the Wanderer on the coast, you will be alone. You will move by land. Low. Fast. Use the terrain."

  "Yes, Master. We shall become the ash from which the seed of the Ravernal Empire will sprout."

  The figure traced a complex sign in the air. The darkness in the corner of the hall thickened, revealing a passage to the sect's secret armories.

  "Go. Let this Beacon become the funeral pyre for the old world."

  Karut nodded, stood up, and, taking a step back, dissolved into the darkness of the corridor, carrying with him a death sentence for accidental witnesses and a readiness to burn to the ground, if only to bring closer the hour of his gods' return.

  The Holy Mirishial Empire. The Cartalpas — Runepolis Highway.

  Lydolka, a senior officer in the Ancient Threats Analysis Division of the Holy Mirishial Empire's Intelligence Bureau in Cartalpas, felt his usually cold, calculating mind being clouded by a sticky, irrational fear. He sat in the back seat of a government limousine, model Celestia-500. Outwardly, this masterpiece of Imperial engineering resembled the streamlined, luxurious Earth automobiles of the mid-20th century—with their smooth, "aerospace" lines, abundance of chrome, and bulging fenders. But it had no exhaust pipes. It moved with an unnatural, frightening silence: an internal combustion engine did not roar beneath the lacquered hood; instead, a complex mana-thrust converter circuit vibrated rhythmically there, on the very edge of audibility, transforming pure mana into the smooth rotation of the wheels.

  Outside the window, through the tinted armored glass, pastoral landscapes of the central provinces flashed by, crisscrossed by perfectly level highways with magical lighting. Everything around breathed peace and a thousand years of prosperity. But Lydolka did not see this beauty; he saw only the burning hulks of ships and the bloody foam in the waters of Magdola, which still lingered before his eyes.

  The summons order had come via the top-secret Red Line government communication channel. No explanations. Only a short code: Azure Sunset. A code that hadn't been used in three hundred years. A code signifying a direct threat to the existence of the state.

  "We are crossing the capital's outer perimeter, sir," the calm voice of the driver, a member of the elite Guard, roused him from his stupor.

  And then, Runepolis, the Pearl of the Central World, appeared on the horizon.

  It was not just a city—it was a living monument to History itself, built on the bones of legends. The capital overwhelmed with its grandeur and contrasts. Magnificent modern skyscrapers of white, magically reinforced stone and glass stood side by side in harmony with gloomy, indestructible black obelisks and the foundations of ancient ruins of the Ravernal Empire, which the Mirishials had never managed to destroy nor fully understand. This symbiosis of a bright present and a dark past created a unique, overpowering urban landscape.

  And above this sea of stone, dominating the horizon, hovered—or seemed to hover, standing on a colossal rock in the center of the city—the legendary Albion Castle. Its walls, constructed of dazzling white mithril and marble, shone so brightly in the sunbeams that it was painful to look at them. Around its spires and the towers of the Grand Academy of Magic, in a dense stream obeying strict air traffic rules, circled not only birds but also dozens of small magical vessels.

  The air was filled not with urban smog, but with the soft, bluish glow of a saturated magical background. Rivers of multi-colored, shiny automobiles, resembling beetles, flowed in perfect order along multi-level interchanges. Peace reigned here. People in parks, Academy students, aristocrats on the promenade—none of them yet knew that their Invincible Armada, the guarantor of this tranquility, had been destroyed in a couple of hours by a fleet of soulless machines.

  The limousine turned toward the main checkpoint of the Palace Complex. The security was unprecedented. Usually, officers in elegant dress uniforms were on duty here, nodding welcomingly to passing diplomats. Today, Lydolka saw assault groups of the elite Guard. The gates were barred not by a grate, but by a shimmering, high-density force field. In the sky above the government quarter, tearing through the clouds, patrolled not mythical beasts, but flights of the newest Alpha-3 interceptors equipped with drop tanks for extended loitering. War had come to this shining metropolis, and Runepolis, without even knowing it, had already shifted to a state of siege.

  "Documents. Biomagic scan," the security officer's voice was devoid of emotion.

  The check took an eternity. Finally, the force field opened.

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  Lydolka walked through the corridors of power, accompanied by four guards whose footsteps echoed off the high vaults. His heart beat against his ribs like a bird in a cage. He carried a briefcase containing the battle recording crystals. A briefcase that weighed as much as a tombstone.

  They approached the doors of the Secret Council Hall—a room protected from eavesdropping by the very fabric of reality. The doors, carved with scenes of the creation of the world, swung open.

  Inside, at an oval table made of petrified wood, those who held the fate of the world in their hands had already gathered. Or thought they held it.

  At the head of the table, gloomy and aged ten years in a single day, sat the Director of the Imperial Intelligence Bureau, Agra Brinston. Next to him, nervously fingering the edge of his robe, was Schmill Pao, head of the Defense Magic Department. On the other side sat a man Lydolka knew—Sivalph, Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs and a member of the delegation to Russia. His face was gray, his eyes sunken.

  Also present was a Fleet Admiral, though not the one who commanded the lost squadron, but the Commander of the Reserve and Coastal Defense. The atmosphere in the hall was so dense and electrified that the hair on Lydolka's arms stood on end. It did not smell of incense here, but of cold sweat, stale tobacco, and primal terror.

  "Come in, Lydolka," Agra Brinston's voice sounded like the grating of a tombstone. "We have been waiting for you. Did you bring the data?"

  "Yes, Mr. Director," Lydolka placed the briefcase on the table. "I brought everything. Recordings from the surviving ships. Data from coastal sensors. And analysis of the enemy equipment wreckage."

  "Then take a seat," Agra nodded at an empty chair. "And tell us how we managed to lose world domination in a single morning."

  Secret Council Hall, Imperial Palace, Runepolis.

  Lydolka hurried to take his assigned seat at the table made of petrified wood, feeling the heavy, expectant gazes of those present. Before him lay a document marked "Absolute Secrecy," tied with a scarlet ribbon. His hands trembled betrayingly as he broke the wax seal.

  He began to read. The very first line, written in dry, calligraphic handwriting in Mirishial, made his heart skip a beat. His eyes widened in shock, his brain refusing to process the meaning of what was written.

  "...Thus, during the combat engagement in the Magdola sector, the 0th Magic Fleet, the elite strike formation of our Empire, suffered losses incompatible with combat capability..."

  Lydolka blinked, hoping the runes would change. But the text remained the same.

  "Lost: battleships 'Variant', 'Clarent'. Heavy cruisers — destroyed. Aircraft carriers — disabled. Personnel losses — over seventy percent..."

  "Copies of detailed reports from Admiral Battista, Captain Cromwell, and surviving officers are attached to the document," the voice of the Minister of Armed Forces sounded hollow, as if from a crypt. He didn't look at his colleagues; his gaze was riveted to the map on the table. "The act of aggression was committed without a declaration of war by the Gra-Valkas Empire."

  A deathly silence hung in the hall, broken only by the humming of mana-lamps.

  "So, she wasn't joking..." Lydolka muttered barely audibly with white lips.

  In his memory floated the image of that brazen woman in the gray uniform at the Conference. Cielia Oudwin. Her icy tone, her contemptuous smile when she promised that their "boots would walk over the lands" of those who did not submit.

  "What did you say, Sir Lydolka?" the Minister asked again, turning his head sharply. A mixture of rage and fear splashed in his eyes.

  Lydolka looked up. Now was not the time for etiquette.

  "At the Conference in Cartalpas, the Gra-Valkas representative stated directly that our Empire would be defeated and conquered if we did not swear allegiance to their barbarian emperor," he explained, trying to calm the tremor in his voice. "Back then, we, myself included, considered it the ravings of mad savages. Empty bravado. But now... It turns out it wasn't a bluff. It was a promise. The elite of our fleet, the strongest sailors and ships, smashed to smithereens in a few hours? How is this possible, Minister? Their ships are made of iron, their guns use gunpowder! How did they penetrate our shields?!"

  The Minister sighed heavily and rubbed his face with his hands.

  "Kinetic energy, Sir Lydolka. Monstrous, unthinkable kinetics. Our Water Aegis barriers simply overheated and collapsed under the hail of shells. We have only one Mithril-class battleship left afloat—the flagship. And it barely limped to the repair docks, resembling a sieve." The Minister's voice became cold and dispassionate, like a sentence. "The enemy surpassed us in numbers, firing range, and—I am afraid to admit it—in battle coordination technology. Their aviation... it is faster and deadlier than anything we have."

  A murmur of horror rose in the hall. An admission of the technological superiority of barbarians from the lips of the head of the army was tantamount to renouncing one's faith.

  "But our meeting is not dedicated to mourning the fallen," the Minister cut off the whispers harshly. "The crisis is just beginning. Immediately after the defeat of the fleet, the Gra-Valkas strike group did not return to base. It regrouped and headed east at full speed."

  "To the east?" Sivalph, the Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs, jumped from his seat, knocking over his chair. "But that means... they are heading into the heart of the First Civilized Zone!"

  Liage, the intelligence officer invited to the council, went cold. He understood why the order was so urgent.

  "Precisely," the Minister nodded gloomily, poking the map with a pointer. "Based on the movement vector and intercepted mana-signals, we assume two possible targets. Either our capital, Runepolis, to strike at the command system." The pointer shifted lower. "Or... Cartalpas. The main trading port, where delegations from all over the world are still located. A strike on Cartalpas will become a symbol of the end of our dominance."

  "But why are we sitting and discussing?!" exclaimed Lydolka, in whom the patriot spoke up. "Where is our fleet? What defense measures have been taken? We must intercept them!"

  The Minister looked at him with infinite weariness.

  "The Fourth and Fifth Magic Fleets have been urgently recalled from northern patrols and are taking up coastal defense positions here, at Runepolis. We cannot leave the capital and the Emperor unprotected."

  He paused. Large drops of sweat appeared on his forehead. His expression became darker than a storm cloud.

  "As for the others... The First, Second, and Third fleets are scattered across bases and are currently hastily gathering toward Cartalpas. However... here ruthless physics comes into play, Sir Lydolka."

  The Minister struck the table with his fist.

  "Speed! Those damned iron ships of Gra-Valkas travel at a speed of 28-30 knots. Constantly. Without tiring the mages. Our line forces barely output 20. Given the distance from Magdola, the mathematical model shows a ninety percent probability that the enemy fleet will reach Cartalpas before our main forces manage to arrive."

  Silence hung in the hall. It was a death sentence. The main port of the Empire was almost defenseless.

  "At this moment," the Admiral of the Coast Guard finished quietly, "the only combat-capable forces in the immediate vicinity of Cartalpas capable of engaging the enemy in any way are a patrol squadron of eight old-model light cruisers and a coastal air wing: forty-two fighters, including the newest Alpha-3 models. That is all."

  The face of Liage, the intelligence officer, usually as passionless as the mask of a ritual golem, became deathly pale. Having visited Moscow and seen the power of Russia, he was the first to put two and two together in his mind. The loss of the fleet was a military catastrophe. But a strike on Cartalpas while the leaders of all world powers were there would be geopolitical suicide.

  "Damn it! Do you even understand what you are saying?!" Liage exploded, forgetting subordination. He jumped up, pushing back the heavy chair with a crash. "We are the Holy Mirishial Empire! We are the center of the universe! We are considered an unshakable pinnacle, the guarantor of order! And you tell me that we are... powerless?"

  He swept a crazed gaze over those present, waving his arms as if trying to dispel the looming nightmare.

  "What will the ambassadors of Mu say? What will the dragons of Eimor think when they learn that the 'Great Empire' cannot protect them from a bunch of barbarians on iron boats?! Are we proposing they run, tails between their legs, from our city?! This is a shame that cannot be washed away for centuries!"

  "Sir Liage, calm down!" the Admiral of the Coast Guard besieged him harshly, but with a note of hopelessness in his voice. "Now is not the time to think about reputation. Now it is a question of survival. The mathematics of war is relentless."

  "Reputation is our strength!" Liage struck the table with his fist, causing the magic crystals to rattle pitifully. "If the world sees us being trampled like helpless puppies, the next day half the vassals will declare independence, and the other half will run to bow at the feet of Russia or Gra-Valkas! You are proposing to surrender the world without a fight!"

  A heavy silence hung in the hall. Liage's words were a truth no one wanted to admit. For millennia, the Empire had stood not only on magic but on the myth of its invincibility. This myth was now burning in the waters of Magdola. The power of faith, ancient rituals, magical oaths—all proved to be dust in the face of the cold, industrial efficiency of weapons the Mirishial sages hadn't even heard of.

  "We are trapped by our own pride," Agra Brinston, Director of the Intelligence Bureau, who had been silent until now, said hollowly. His eyes, usually cold and astute, were full of gloom. He raised a hand, stopping the flow of Liage's emotions.

  "Listen to me, all of you. The destruction of the 0th Fleet is a tragedy that cannot be fixed. The fleet is at the bottom. But those who destroyed it are predators of a new type. They will not stop. The Conference of Eleven Superpowers has been de facto disrupted."

  Brinston stood and walked to the map, where the course of the Gra-Valkas squadron was marked with red dots.

  "Let us be realists. If the enemy attacks Cartalpas, and even a single hair falls from the head of a representative of Eimor, Mu, or Russia... We will be accused not just of weakness. We will be accused of criminal negligence. Or worse—collusion."

  "Collusion?!" Schmill Pao, the Defense General, choked.

  "Precisely," Agra looked at the map like a surgeon at an inoperable tumor. "Imagine the headlines: 'Mirishial lured world leaders into a trap to eliminate them by the hands of barbarians.' This will be the end of our alliances. We will be left alone against the whole world."

  Liage felt his mind boiling. The Empire, famous for its intelligence, had missed a dagger strike to the heart.

  "Damned mechanical bastards!" he exclaimed with the despair of a cornered beast.

  He sank heavily into his chair, covering his face with his hands. The situation was unprecedented. The Empire was on its knees, and the executioner's sword was already raised.

  "We must choose the lesser of two evils," Agra Brinston continued, and his voice became cold and hard as steel. "A shameful retreat is better than the death of allies under our flag. The only logical way out that leaves us a chance for a political future is to immediately, right now, declare a state of emergency."

  He looked at every member of the council.

  "Inform all delegates of an 'unforeseen threat.' Without going into the details of the rout. Call it a 'treacherous surprise attack on the perimeter.' Officially postpone the conference indefinitely and urgently, in the form of an ultimatum, ask them to evacuate to their countries. We will provide them with our ships, our planes—anything, just so they leave the kill zone before the horizon turns black from the smoke of Gra-Valkan smokestacks."

  As soon as Agra spoke these words, Liage looked up at him. There was no agreement in his eyes, only the cold, angry hatred of a man forced to swallow poison to avoid dying by the sword. He understood: The Director was right. But that only made it more painful. The Empire was retreating. For the first time in history.

  "Of course, it is easy for you to discuss the 'lesser evil' sitting in a protected bunker in Runepolis!" Liage spat out bitterly, almost with hatred. His eyes, rimmed with red circles, bored into the Intelligence Director's face. "You propose to declare an evacuation. To surrender. And who will announce this, standing face to face with the ambassadors? 'Forgive us, the Great Empire wet itself'? That will be me!"

  Liage jumped up and paced nervously around the office. Only one thought beat in his head—to find a weapon. Anything that could stop the iron monsters of Gra-Valkas.

  "If our fleets cannot make it in time... If ordinary magic is powerless against their steel... Then perhaps it is time to unseal the Arsenal? We should deploy Parcaon!"

  A deathly silence reigned in the hall. The name Liage had uttered was almost taboo.

  "The Ancient Sea Fortress Parcaon?" Agra Brinston asked slowly, emphasizing each word. His eyebrows crawled upward, expressing an extreme degree of skepticism. "You propose unleashing the 'Destroyer of Worlds' against barbarians?"

  "Yes, exactly!" Liage stopped, gripping the back of a chair. Fanatical hope sounded in his voice. "This fortress is the legacy of the Ravernal Empire itself! Its 'Doomsday Light' guns burned entire archipelagos. With its power, the Gra-Valkas fleet, no matter how large, will cease to exist in a single salvo! We won't just win—we will return fear and respect to the Empire!"

  Agra sighed heavily and, without answering, turned to a balding, portly man in the robes of the Technological Bureau—the chief engineer for Artifact preservation, who had been specially invited for consultation.

  "What is the readiness assessment of Object 'Zero'?" Brinston asked.

  The engineer turned pale; large drops of sweat appeared on his forehead. He nervously wiped his hands on his robe and spoke in a trembling voice, trying not to look at the furious Liage:

  "According to the latest tests... Upon activation of Parcaon, the probability of complete destruction of the enemy fleet on approach to Cartalpas is ninety-eight percent. Its shields are impenetrable even to their kinetic weapons."

  "See!" Liage exclaimed.

  "But," the engineer raised his voice, interrupting him, "there are nuances, Sir Liage. First, we have only one such fortress. The only one. Second, its magic reactor works on principles we do not fully understand. We are merely caretakers, not creators. Any attempt to bring it to full combat power is a risk. And third, according to the Imperial Emergency Law, activation of the 'Apocalypse' class requires a unanimous decision of the Senate and the personal, written seal of His Holiness the Emperor. This will take days. We do not have days."

  Liage's face twisted with disappointment mixed with rage. Bureaucracy. Even on the brink of destruction, the Empire was shackled by the chains of its own laws.

  Agra Brinston rose, leaning his hands on the table, and his voice became hard as a whiplash blow:

  "And there is one more reason, Liage. The most important one. Parcaon is our strategic reserve. Our 'magic bullet'. Our only means of fighting the possible return of the Ancient Magical Empire, about which we were warned. To use our absolute weapon against the Gra-Valkas fleet, which, as reports show, is technically possible to defeat with our conventional forces if we gather them into a fist, is criminal and irrational."

  He paused, sweeping a heavy gaze over everyone.

  "Moreover. The Russians are watching. If we show them our main card now, we lose the deterrent factor. Besides, as the engineer correctly noted, we understand only half of this machine's capabilities. If Parcaon fails in battle with Gra-Valkas... we remain naked in the face of the true Armageddon when Ravernal returns. I will not give permission."

  The arguments were not just weighty. They were devastatingly logical. In the cold mathematics of state survival, Liage's pride and even the lives of the ambassadors in Cartalpas were worth less than preserving the main caliber for the Final War.

  Liage slowly sank into his chair. He was forced to surrender. The battle was lost before it began, in this very office.

  "Have it your way," he wheezed.

  The heavy meeting, full of mutual accusations and gloomy forecasts, continued until the first rays of the sun. Liters of tonic potions were drunk, mountains of parchment written on. Retreat routes were developed, texts of apologies and false communiqués were written.

  And on a gloomy, rainy morning, a dispatch, short as a sentence, arrived at the Imperial Embassy in Cartalpas via a top-priority closed channel:

  "Code: Red Sunset. Order No. 66. Immediately begin the secret evacuation of the embassies of the 'Big Eleven' to the city of Kan-Brid. Designate the reason as 'threat of a terrorist act'. Use force if necessary to ensure evacuation."

  At the same moment, another dispatch went deep into the rear, to the fortress city of Kan-Brid:

  "Prepare the city to receive the top leadership of the world's countries. Ensure a regime of maximum secrecy and security. The fate of the Empire depends on your promptness."