Rodenius Continent. The Kingdom of Quilla.

  Zone of Special Economic Interests of the Russian Federation.

  Oil and Gas Condensate Field "Mariet-East". Station No. 35.

  The scorching, shimmering air of the Quilla desert seemed to be melting reality itself, distorting the outlines of the distant, jagged peaks of the Mariet mountain range. Here, where for centuries only scorpions and feral tribes of beastmen had survived, a low-frequency, deep-seated hum now reigned—a sound alien to this world. It was the sound of Russian industrial expansion.

  After seismic and satellite reconnaissance data confirmed the presence of a colossal oil lens in this inaccessible sector, the Kremlin's diplomatic machine operated with ruthless efficiency. It was not petitioners who arrived at the Royal Palace of Quilla—a land suffering from eternal drought and resource scarcity—but "partners" with offers that could not be refused. The strategic pact "Resources in Exchange for Technology and Security" was signed by King Hurt IV, representatives of the Council of Dwarven Clans, and the heads of the two largest merchant guilds. Russia received exclusive rights to the subsoil, effectively turning the border zone into its own enclave, while Quilla received guarantees of desalinated water, food supplies, and electricity. For a world where water was valued more than gold, this was the deal of the century.

  What happened next was called nothing less than a "Steel Miracle" by the locals.

  Over the course of nearly two years, the lifeless rocky plateau was transformed. Russian Il-76 military transport aircraft and Mi-26 heavy helicopters organized an air bridge. On the site where the wind once howled, an ultra-modern industrial cluster grew.

  Modular oil treatment units glittered in the sun with fresh steel. Gas turbine power plants, running on associated petroleum gas, generated megawatts of energy with a quiet whine, powering not only the drilling rigs but also the nearby settlements of the dwarves, who saw electric light that did not require mana stones for the first time in history. The residential town for the shift workers resembled an oasis from the future: air-conditioned living modules protected from sandstorms, satellite communications, and medical units on par with the best clinics in Moscow.

  A pipeline stretched across the desert like a black artery, running parallel to a new asphalt highway leading to the port. Asphalt in the desert was greater sorcery to the locals than any fireball. Hundreds of KamAZ trucks and engineering vehicles shuttled back and forth around the clock, definitively cementing Russian dominance on Rodenius not with the sword, but with logistics and concrete.

  However, this region, known as the "Wild Limit," had a bad reputation. Even the technologically advanced Superpower Mu had refused to colonize these lands in its time. The reason lay not only in the harsh climate but also in the constant threat from clans of wild beastmen—in particular, the warlike Barrat tribe. These creatures, who did not recognize the authority of King Hurt, combined natural animal fury with primitive but dangerous earth and wind shamanic magic.

  Moscow, unwilling to drag the regular army into a boggy counter-insurgency war and create a negative diplomatic background, made a pragmatic decision. Perimeter defense, convoy escort, and "preventive work" with the local population were outsourced to professionals—the Private Military Company (PMC) "Wolfhound."

  The PMC base, located on a commanding height above the oil field, resembled a fortress: sand-filled HESCO bastions, concrete blocks, towers with Kord machine guns, and 360-degree thermal imaging cameras. The mercenaries—veterans of Syria, Africa, and the first campaigns in the New World—understood the specifics of the task perfectly. They were facing not a regular enemy, but fanatical, fast, and physically strong creatures capable of appearing out of nowhere. Therefore, the Wolfhounds' tactics were harsh: active patrolling in armored Tigr vehicles, the use of reconnaissance UAVs, and the creation of "security zones" using minefields and motion sensors. They had not come here to conquer, but to protect investments, and anyone who threatened the oil became a target for the 12.7mm caliber.

  Rodenius Continent. Route "Highway 35." PMC Area of Responsibility.

  Any illusions that the savages would scatter at the sight of the first Russian tricolor dissipated in the very first weeks. The Barrat tribe, the ancestral masters of these wastelands, proved to be an enemy the Russian specialists had never encountered before. They were not merely bandits, but apex predators.

  Their tactics were primitive but murderously effective in the conditions of a magical world. The beastmen, possessing an innate connection to the element of earth, could literally dissolve into the landscape. They burrowed into the sand, waiting for hours under the scorching sun, slowing their breathing rhythm, becoming invisible even to early-generation thermal imagers due to the heat radiating from the baking rocks.

  "They don't fight; they hunt," the head of rig security, a former GRU major, remarked gloomily, spitting out dust.

  "To them, our rig is just new, strange prey. And the geologists are soft meat in inconvenient packaging."

  The initial attacks were reconnaissance-in-force operations. Snipers from the dunes fired on the perimeter with primitive bows and trophy arquebuses, testing the reaction. The Russian regular army, stationed there at the beginning, responded sluggishly, bound by strict instructions "not to provoke the local population."

  Everything changed on the "Night of Long Torches." A Barrat sabotage group, using the shamanic magic of the Silent Step, penetrated the perimeter, taking out sentries silently—throats cut with obsidian knives, not a sound over the airwaves. They set fire to food warehouses and spare parts hangars. Pillars of fire were visible for kilometers. A two-week disruption to the drilling schedule was the final straw. Moscow gave the green light for the "hard option."

  A combined detachment of the SSO (Special Operations Forces) conducted a series of punitive raids deep into the "gray zone." It was a slaughter. Night vision devices and silenced weapons gave the Russians an absolute advantage. Clan nests were cleared out, and leaders were liquidated. The beastmen, facing invisible death, pulled back.

  But as soon as the regular units were withdrawn and replaced by PMC mercenaries—professionals, yes, but fewer in number—the terror returned. And this time, it was different.

  "Sector Three, another roadbed detonation!"

  "Convoy 'Liter-5' under fire from the 'green zone,' tanker driver is hit, tire blown out!"

  The beastmen were learning. They stopped charging headlong into trouble and switched to hit-and-run tactics. They became masters of the ambush. Using their inhuman speed and agility, they attacked lone vehicles, cut communication cables, and killed stragglers.

  Fear became the workers' constant companion. Geologists refused to step outside the perimeter without a heavy escort. KamAZ drivers downed sedatives by the handful before getting behind the wheel.

  "I didn't sign up to die for a barrel of oil!" one of the drillers screamed when the body of a mechanic, shredded by claws, was brought to the base. "You promised safety! But this is fucking Jurassic Park out here!"

  Thirty firefights had been recorded in the last month alone. The security zone had shrunk to the firing radius of a guard tower. The situation was becoming critical: production was at risk of total collapse due to staff panic.

  The PMC leadership made the only correct decision—a demonstration of overwhelming force. The convoy protocols had been rewritten in blood. Now, every transport convoy heading to the port was transformed into a mobile fortress.

  Route 35. Noon.

  A convoy of ten fuel tankers and trucks laden with equipment was crawling along the scorching asphalt.

  At the lead was a BTR-80A armored personnel carrier, its 30-millimeter cannon rotating predatorily, scanning the horizon.

  On the flanks and bringing up the rear were "gun trucks"—armored Ural trucks with twin ZU-23-2 anti-aircraft mounts and DShKM heavy machine guns, caliber 12.7mm, installed in their cargo beds.

  Mercenaries sat hunched on top of the armor, peering into the desert haze. Tanned, dressed in mismatched but practical tactical gear, they kept their fingers on the triggers. Their eyes were covered by tactical goggles, but tension was palpable in every posture.

  The drivers of the civilian vehicles, unarmed and sweating, pressed on the gas, trying not to let the gap widen.

  Suddenly, gray shadows broke loose from a ridge of rocks hanging over the road. Ambush. A dozen beastmen, enhanced by combat magic, were trying to close the distance for close-quarters combat to leap onto the armor.

  "Contact right! Three o'clock! Range three hundred!" the convoy commander barked into the radio. "Suppress them!"

  The response was instantaneous and terrifying. The DShKM—a weapon created to punch through brick walls and shoot down helicopters—opened fire. The characteristic, heavy pounding Do-do-do-do! drowned out the roar of the engines.

  The effect of a 12.7x108mm bullet hitting a living body was horrifying. This was not a wound. It was annihilation. The beastmen's naturally thick hide, which saved them from arrows and light bullets, meant nothing against half an inch of steel and lead flying at supersonic speed. Limbs were torn off. A hit to the torso turned the creature into bloody dust.

  The first three attackers simply ceased to exist, turning into a cloud of red mist. The others, seeing their comrades literally torn to pieces by an unknown force at a distance impossible for a spear throw, froze.

  "Cease fire! Save ammo!"

  The dust settled. Only fragments of bodies remained on the rocks. The beastmen watching this from afar learned the lesson. This was not fire magic one could hide from behind a shield. This was death from which there was no salvation.

  As soon as the local tribes realized that a clash with such columns was not a valiant battle, but guaranteed, instant suicide without a chance for loot, the attacks stopped. Fear of the Russians' "Thunder Sticks" proved stronger than hunger and hatred. Route 35 was free once again.

  Kingdom of Quilla. Southern Mariet Ridge. External Security Perimeter of Refinery No. 35.

  Observation Post "Height-1120" (Callsign "Grave").

  Time: 17:46 (Local). Sunset.

  The sun, crimson and bloated with dust, was slowly drowning in the sands behind the ridge, painting the sharp rock peaks the color of clotted blood. The shadows in the gorges lengthened, turning into black voids where a whole company could easily hide.

  "Base, this is One. Visual contact. Sector three-four. Group of unknowns. Count—approximately thirty units. Dismounted. Moving from the north along the ravine floor, in a line formation. Over," wheezed the mercenary with the callsign "Swift." He was lying on the edge of the cliff, taking cover behind a boulder, pressing the eyecups of his powerful Steiner Commander binoculars into his face so hard they left circles. His sun-bleached shemagh was wet with sweat, and a finger in a glove with cut-off knuckles tapped nervously on the radio casing.

  The speaker hissed, breaking through the static interference that was common in these mountains but seemed particularly vicious today.

  "One, Base. Copy that. Who are they? Locals? The Barrat Clan or savage shamans again? Over," the voice of the duty officer in the air-conditioned bunker sounded bored but professional.

  Swift turned the focus wheel, but the image didn't get clearer.

  "Base, One. Unable to identify. Negative. These aren't locals... This is some weird bullshit," he stumbled for a second, choosing words. "The silhouettes... they are 'shimmering.' Like hot air over asphalt, only... dark. Thermal is showing blotches, laser rangefinder isn't getting a beam return. My optics are 'swimming' when I look at them. Over."

  There was a pause on the other end. The operator was clearly checking instructions.

  "One, Base. Attention. Confirming status 'Visual Contact.' No engagement. That is a 'neutral zone,' still five klicks to the rig. Open fire only upon crossing the 'Red Line' or in case of overt aggression. Attention: no friendlies in the sector. Recon team is home, 'birds' are at base. Do you read me? Any movement in your direction is considered hostile. Over."

  "Base, One. Copy. Observing. Out," the mercenary released the push-to-talk button with a dry click.

  He turned to his partner, a hulking machine gunner with the callsign "Boatswain," who was lying by the mount of a heavy NSV-12.7 Utyos machine gun. Boatswain silently, his face unchanging, pulled the charging handle. The metallic clang of a cartridge being chambered sounded in the thick silence of the gorge like the cocking of a hammer on a scaffold.

  Silence hung, heavy and viscous like old engine oil. The wind whistled dismally in the crevices, tearing at dry tumbleweeds and throwing fine stone grit into their faces. The smells of cooling stone, wormwood, and gun oil mixed into an anxious cocktail.

  "Boss... I really fucking don't like this," muttered Boatswain, pressing the machine gun stock to his shoulder. His weather-beaten, leathery face, accustomed to the sight of corpses and blood, now expressed a strange unease. He didn't tear his gaze away from the ravine below.

  "Look for yourself. My hackles are standing up like a dog's. I look at them—and my vision goes dark, focus slips, like it's not people walking, but holes in space. Hands are shaking, bitch... I haven't seen anything like this in Africa. That's not camouflage, that's... fucking sorcery."

  "You think it's easier for me?" Swift tore himself away from the eyepieces and wiped the sweat pouring into his eyes with the back of his hand. "I have a Stein with thirty-times magnification and coated optics. I can, dammit, count the lice in a savage's beard from a kilometer away. But these guys—are like dead pixels on a screen. They ripple, they blur. No uniform, no weapons, no faces visible. A shadow, not infantry."

  He spat with a dry mouth.

  "Those aren't clan members. And not beasts. Those walk like they own the place—loud, dirty. These guys float. And they hold formation... Professionals."

  Swift switched the safety on his rifle.

  "Alright. If they approach that crooked boulder—that's the line. Work to kill. First a 'long' burst, then saturate the area. If those are mages—don't let them open their mouths. Got it?"

  "Roger that. I'll take 'em apart for spares," the machine gunner nodded gloomily, shifting his grip on the handles of the Utyos to get comfortable.

  Swift patted him on the body armor and, crouching low, began to crawl back behind the ridge.

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  "That's it. Hold the sector. I'll dart over to Kalancha; he just set up the field kitchen. I'll bring some chow before it starts. My guts are playing a march."

  He stood to full height only behind cover, adjusted his rifle, and winked at his partner with feigned cheerfulness.

  "War is war, brother, but lunch is on schedule. Don't jitter, Boatswain. We'll make it through. We've dealt with devils worse than this."

  He began to descend leisurely down the scree, dissolving into the soft, deceptive gold of the sunset, leaving his comrade alone with the creeping darkness and the trembling shadows below.

  Time: 17:51.

  The silence, in which time itself seemed to have frozen, was torn apart not by a scream, but by thunder.

  The ridge to the north shuddered from a dry, rhythmic cracking—the NSV Utyos heavy machine gun at Post No. 1 had begun to work. The sound was so dense and heavy it was as if someone were banging a sledgehammer against an empty iron barrel right next to one's ear. Heavy 12.7mm bullets flew into the twilight, ripping through the air with a shriek. The echo reflected repeatedly off the sheer walls of the gorge, turning into a continuous, oppressive roar of an avalanche.

  A second later, the bass of the Utyos was joined by the angry, cracking bark of AK-74M assault rifles and Pecheneg light machine guns from the neighboring heights. Tracers drew dotted lines of death in the gathering dusk.

  The battle had begun against the rules—immediately with maximum caliber.

  Over the camp, the public address loudspeaker hanging on a leaning concrete pole rasped and exploded with a siren:

  "ATTENTION! CODE RED! PERIMETER BREACHED! ALL UNITS—COMBAT DEPLOYMENT! SECTOR NORTH! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!"

  The base instantly turned into a disturbed hive, but there was an iron logic within this chaos. Mercenaries sleeping in modules or smoking by the kitchen sprang from their places. They pulled heavy Defender body armor onto sweaty T-shirts or bare torsos on the run, clicking velcro and buckles. Hands habitually grabbed chest rigs stuffed with magazines; someone was dragging heavy, olive-drab ammo crates, tearing the lids off with knives as they ran. Grenadiers slung RPG-26 tubes onto their backs.

  "Group Alpha, man the parapet! Machine guns to the flanks! Move it, move it, you bitches!" yelled the defense commander, a former marine with gray stubble, racking the slide of his rifle. "Cut them off from the rocks! Don't let them get within throwing distance!"

  "Contact at twelve o'clock! I see movement! Wedge formation! Range five hundred! SUPPRESSING FIRE!"

  The first line of defense flared with muzzle flashes.

  A burst from a tripod-mounted Kord installed on the roof of the command module stitched through the darkness. Red fireflies of tracer bullets rushed toward the dark figures flickering among the stones. The lead rain should have turned any infantry into mince.

  But physics failed.

  "Motherfucker!" yelled a rifleman from the front line, changing a magazine. His face was white, his eyes dilated. "I pumped half a mag of armor-piercing into the lead guy! Right in the chest! He doesn't give a shit! Sparks fly, but he keeps walking!"

  Something impossible was happening in the mercenaries' sights. 5.45 and even 7.62 bullets hit the dark silhouettes but did not penetrate them. Bluish, geometrically regular halos—individual protective fields—flared up around the figures. Heavy Kord bullets knocked them off their feet with kinetic energy, but the figures got up immediately without losing pace. It was like shooting at Terminators.

  "Left flank! They're flanking through the 'green zone'! RPG up! Burn them!" the platoon leader shouted hysterically.

  A mercenary with an RPG-7 jumped out from behind sandbags, aimed, and pulled the trigger. A jet of fire struck backward, and the grenade went to the target.

  The explosion covered a group of enemies. A cloud of dust and shrapnel shot upward. But when it settled, the silhouettes continued to walk. Their formation had not broken.

  The machine gunner's hands were shaking; he couldn't get the belt into the feed tray.

  "Those aren't people... Those are tanks! Fuck, those are walking tanks!"

  And then reality cracked.

  The enemy stopped walking silently.

  VZZZZ-OOOOM...

  A low, vibrating sound, like a turbine starting, hit the eardrums. One of the figures raised an arm, and what burst from it wasn't a shot, but a clot of concentrated, pulsating energy. It was dazzlingly blue, leaving a trail of ionized air behind it. The projectile flew over the positions faster than a bullet and struck the reinforced bunker of "Nest-2."

  BOOOOM! CRACK!

  It wasn't a high-explosive blast. It was the strike of a god's hammer. The log roofing shattered into splinters, sandbags evaporated. Concrete blocks split. The earth was turned inside out.

  The camp was covered by a shockwave and the acrid smell of ozone and burnt meat.

  The commander's radio exploded with screams:

  "Nest-2 is silent! It's gone! Just gone! We have casualties!"

  "Sector four, three KIA! Torn to shreds! Six WIA, two critical! Medic! Severed limbs! The bleeding won't stop!"

  "Don't cease fire! Hit the joints! Hit the legs! Drop them!" the commander screamed, trying to override the panic, though he felt sticky fear crawling up his spine himself. "Where are the mortars?! Give me the Sani!"

  From behind the nearest rock, ignoring the squall of fire, one of the attackers emerged. In the light of the searchlights, it became clear: this was not just a human. He was encased in smooth, matte black armor without a single seam, resembling insect chitin. A haze of distortion pulsed around a helmet without eye sockets. He moved unrealistically—smoothly, without inertia, gliding over the ground like a phantom. Bullets bounced off him with a metallic ring.

  He raised a manipulator arm. A new clot of shining matter—blue as the icy fire of a supernova—tore from his gauntlet.

  It struck right in the chest of a machine gunner who had clamped down on the trigger in despair, spraying the monster with lead at point-blank range.

  The effect was nightmarish.

  The Class 5 body armor was not penetrated—it flowed like wax. Ceramics, Kevlar, and steel instantly heated to thousands of degrees. But what happened to the flesh was more terrible. The magic of "light decay" began to burn the body right through the tissues, ignoring bone and muscle.

  The fighter screamed.

  It was not a scream of pain. It was the roar of a creature whose nervous system had overloaded from unbearable torment. The sound was so powerful that it drowned out the rattle of machine guns, forcing even the mountain itself to fall silent for a second. His body arched, beginning to shake in monstrous convulsions. Eyes bulged from their sockets from the internal pressure of boiling blood; pink foam gushed from his mouth, mixing with the howl. Thick, sweetish steam of boiling organic matter rose from him. He tried to inhale, but his lungs were already sintered. He was dying, but the magic prevented him from losing consciousness, prolonging the agony.

  "Get him out! To the 'yellow zone,' move it, dammit! Tourniquet on the thigh!" barked the mercenary with the callsign Swift, forcefully pressing the bloodied fighter into the dust so a stray shard wouldn't finish him off. The smell of singed meat and opened bowels hit his nose, triggering a gag reflex, but adrenaline drowned out everything.

  He rolled behind the sandbags, pressing the radio's push-to-talk button to his face.

  "Base, this is One! Code Black! We are being overrun! I repeat—perimeter crushed, we are under dagger-close fire of an unknown type! Immediate support required! 'Boxes' [APCs], birds—everything you've got! We're gonna get eaten alive here!"

  The tense voice of the operator broke through the crackle of static in the speaker:

  "One, Base. Copy. QRF on APCs is already on the march. Two birds scrambled on alert. ETA—fifteen minutes. Hold the line."

  "We don't HAVE fifteen minutes, bitch!" Swift screamed, changing a magazine and blindly spraying the area in front of him to keep the shadows down. "In five minutes they'll be drinking our tea on our corpses! Give us artillery!"

  "Negative, One. No arty in the sector. Fifteen minutes. Work with what you have. Out."

  "Out... Over and fucking out..." the mercenary hissed through his teeth, spitting out stone grit that had stuffed his mouth.

  His face turned gray under the layer of dust. He understood: fifteen minutes in modern combat is an epoch. They wouldn't last. The enemy wasn't moving in a line, but in bursts, using terrain folds and... teleportation? No, those were acceleration jumps, "blinks" smearing the silhouette.

  Ahead, seventy meters out, a signal flare tripped, flooding the gorge with a deathly red light.

  "Hostiles crossed the 'BLUE' line! They are in the kill zone!" came the heart-rending scream of the observer.

  Swift bared his teeth. This was their only trump card. Command-detonated minefield. Four heavy MON-90 directional fragmentation mines and camouflaged IEDs.

  "EVERYONE DOWN! FIRE IN THE HOLE!"

  He slammed the lever of the blasting machine with force.

  The earth didn't just shudder—it jumped. A series of explosions merged into one monstrous, eardrum-tearing roar. Flashes tore the twilight, highlighting the enemy silhouettes. Directed streams of thousands of steel rollers and the shockwave swept away the first rows of attackers.

  It was crude physics against magic. And this time, physics took its toll. The shields couldn't handle the overload.

  A cloud of dust, smoke, and stone grit covered the slope.

  When the echo died down, the mercenaries saw the result. Ten figures in black robes and light armor lay like broken dolls. Their magical barriers winked and went out, unable to withstand the density of the fragmentation stream. The bodies smoked, mixed with the soil.

  "Got 'em! Eat that, you scum!" yelled one of the youngsters, jumping up in euphoria. "Here's a Russian hello for you!"

  "Get down, you fool!" Swift screamed, but it was too late.

  A shadow burst from the dust cloud like a demon from the underworld. It didn't fall, didn't slow down. The explosion merely tore off its camouflage cloak, revealing its true form.

  This was not a human. This was a walking tank.

  Massive MGZ-class armor covered in pulsating violet runes. A helmet with a T-shaped visor burning with crimson light.

  The Annonrial warrior made a seemingly impossible dash, covering thirty meters in a second. A two-handed sword materialized in his hand—but not of steel, of humming, unstable plasma.

  "Pathetic insect..." he boomed. The voice was distorted, deep, and vibrating, penetrating directly into the skull.

  The young mercenary didn't even have time to raise his rifle. The shining blade described an arc. The sound of the impact wasn't metallic, but squelching, wet—like a hot knife cutting butter. Chest rig, Kevlar, flesh, spine—all were severed in one strike. The fighter's upper torso began to slide off the lower half; the wound edges cauterized instantly, blood boiled before it could spray.

  Swift's eyes went wide.

  Crimson haze was oozing from the cracks and joints of the giant's armor—"Blood of Ancestors," a combat drug accelerating a mage's metabolism to superluminal reaction speeds. He was overloading himself, burning his life for these few minutes of absolute power.

  "Fire! Drop him! Shoot for the head!" the commander screamed, swinging the Utyos around.

  The remnants of the group opened up with a squall of fire. 5.45mm bullets, standard rounds, struck the giant's chest plate and... bounced off with a pitiful ring, like peas off a wall. Active magi-defense and the super-strong alloy of the ancients weren't even scratched. Only the 12.7mm machine gun fire made the warrior flinch slightly, striking sparks from his pauldrons, but didn't penetrate.

  The stranger moved forward. His movements were blurred shadows. He wasn't running—he was dancing among the tracers.

  Lunge. Strike. Plasma explosion.

  The sword severed the machine gun barrel along with the gunner's hands. A strike from a gauntlet, shrouded in a force sphere, turned the grenadier's head into red mist inside his helmet.

  Panic, sticky and cold, washed over the trenches. Discipline, held together by professionalism, collapsed like a house of cards before a creature that ignored lead.

  A fighter with the callsign "Awl," a veteran of two wars, tried to reload his under-barrel launcher with trembling hands. The Annonrial was there instantly. He didn't even use the sword. A simple kick with a heavy sabaton—and the mercenary's ribcage caved inward, breaking ribs and rupturing the heart. The body was thrown five meters away.

  The Annonrial warrior stopped, shaking clots of baked blood and mud from his plasma blade with a sharp, disdainful motion. The blade hummed, craving fresh flesh. His gaze, hidden behind the tactical visor's eyepieces smoldering with crimson light, focused on the only remaining threat—Swift, the Chief. Pressed against the melted sandbags, the mercenary gripped his worn AK-74M equipped with a GP-25 Koster under-barrel grenade launcher, his fingers turning white from the strain.

  The Chief understood: this was not a duel. It was an execution. But he had no intention of dying in silence.

  "Eat this, bitch!" he exhaled, slamming the stock into his shoulder.

  The thump of the launcher's discharge was drowned out by the shriek of the magic shield. The 40mm VOG-25 grenade went spinning into flight. The distance was critically short, barely enough to arm the fuse.

  CRACK!

  An explosion blossomed like an orange flower directly on the giant's chest. The magical barrier, already depleted by the previous battle, could not withstand the point-blank overload. It crackled, spiderwebbing like broken glass, and collapsed with a shriek, showering its wearer in a cascade of sparks. The shockwave hurled the armored body backward. He flew five meters and slammed into the rock face with a dull, heavy clang, leaving a dent in the stone.

  The Chief breathed heavily, wheezing. Air whistled into his lungs, mixing with dust. His hands shook not from fear, but from an off-the-charts adrenaline dump. His fingers, raw and bloody, feverishly fumbled for a second VOG grenade in his pouch.

  Load... Load while he's down...

  Click. Grenade in the barrel.

  But he wasn't fast enough to raise the weapon.

  A shadow flashed before him—too fast for a creature of such mass. Supernatural speed bestowed by the "Blood of Ancestors."

  The plasma sword described a short, economical arc.

  The Chief didn't feel the pain immediately. He simply watched as his right hand—the one gripping the rifle's pistol grip—detached from his body along with the weapon and flew aside, spinning in the air. The cut was perfectly smooth and cauterized.

  For a second, his brain refused to accept reality. And then came the Pain.

  It was white, blinding.

  "AAAAHHH!" the scream stuck in his throat, turning into a gurgling wheeze. Blood, breaking through the cauterized crust, spurted onto the rocks in rhythmic jets.

  He hadn't even fallen yet when the next blow—an armored boot to the chest—knocked the wind out of him. The impact was so powerful that the Kevlar of his vest burst, and the ribs beneath were pulverized. He was thrown ten meters back like a broken doll. He slammed back-first into the ground, rolled over, and went still. Thick, black blood gushed from his mouth—a lung had been punctured.

  The shadow loomed over him. The Annonrial stood motionless. His armor was smoking but intact. The runes pulsed in time with his frantic, inhuman heartbeat.

  "Pathetic... vile... disgusting insect," he boomed. The voice was broadcast through the helmet's external speakers, amplified and distorted, making it seem as if the abyss itself were speaking. There was no anger in it, only infinite, cosmic contempt. "So weak... and so fragile. Your technology is garbage. Your life is a mistake."

  The Chief, fighting through the veil before his eyes, tried to move. Instinct drove him toward the rifle, which lay a couple of meters away along with his severed hand. He crawled. Using one arm and his legs, leaving a wide, wet red trail behind him. Every inch was a struggle; his jaws clenched until his teeth nearly cracked. Black circles swam before his eyes, in which faces flashed. Daughter. Mother. Letters in his breast pocket, soaked in sweat. Not here... Not like this...

  The Annonrial slowly, savoring the moment, stepped on his wounded leg and began to press down, grinding the treaded sole.

  "EEEEE-UGHHH!" an animalistic howl tore from the mercenary's throat. The pain shut down his vision, leaving only a red flash.

  "Come on! Crawl to your toy! Show me your will to live, dirty ape," the warrior laughed. The laugh sounded like metal screeching against glass.

  He leaned down, gripped the Chief firmly by the throat with his left hand, and lifted him off the ground like a naughty puppy. The body armor crunched. The Chief wheezed, his face turning blue, legs dangling helplessly in the air. He looked into the dead crimson lenses of the helmet, where he saw his own reflection—a dying, crippled man.

  The Annonrial drew back his right arm with the sword for the final strike.

  And at that moment, the shadow behind his back came to life.

  From the ruins of the dugout, like a jack-in-the-box, popped a young mercenary—Zhenya. Pale as chalk, eyes wide with horror and determination, he held not a rifle (he was out of ammo), but a 6X4 bayonet-knife.

  He didn't scream. He knew this was a one-way ticket.

  Zhenya leaped, aiming the blade at the neck armor joint—the only vulnerable spot.

  "For the boys!"

  The warrior caught the movement with rear sensors. The supernatural reaction speed bestowed by the drug worked faster than thought. Without turning, he simply loosened his grip on the Chief's throat, dropping him, and lightning-fast, spinning around, struck with his left fist.

  The heavy gauntlet, reinforced by servos and magic, met the boy's face in mid-flight.

  The sound was disgusting. A wet crunch, like a watermelon bursting. Zhenya's head simply vanished in a bloody cloud; the body flew another meter by inertia and flopped into the dust like a sack.

  "No... Zhenya..." the Chief rasped, lying in the mud.

  But the sacrifice was not in vain. The Annonrial had exposed his back for a second, and his shield was destabilized by the blow.

  The Chief didn't reach for the rifle. On the belt of his "flown-off" arm lying nearby, he found that very loaded under-barrel launcher.

  "Eat dirt, bitch!"

  He pulled the trigger. A point-blank shot, from three meters.

  The grenade didn't have time to arm, but the kinetic energy of the 40mm slug launched at 76 m/s was terrifying. It struck exactly on the magic unit on the back, right where the crack from the mine already was.

  CLANG-CRACK!

  The magic unit powering the warrior's armor and life cracked. Unstable magical energy burst outward.

  KA-BOOM!

  A flash of pure ether. The Annonrial was thrown forward, his armor glowing from within, burning out the wearer. He flew fifteen meters and collapsed in a pile of scrap metal.

  "Kh-hh... Th-thanks, brother..." the Chief wheezed.

  Leaning against the wall of the demolished dugout, he forced himself to one knee. Blood was jetting from the stump of his arm.

  "Medkit... tourniquet..."

  With the shaking fingers of his left hand, he tore an individual dressing packet and a rubber Esmarch tourniquet from his pouch. He tightened the knot on his shoulder with his teeth, feeling the darkness recede. Then he took out a syringe tube of Promedol. He struck with the needle right through the fabric of his flight suit.

  The world became cottony; the pain receded into the background, leaving a cold, crystal clarity.

  He picked up the rifle with his left hand, pressing the stock to his side with his elbow. Limping, dragging his shattered leg, with a face turned into a mask of mud and blood, he moved toward the fallen giant.

  The warrior lay on his back. He was still alive. His chest was heaving convulsively. Violet smoke poured from the ruptured reactor, mixing with the "Blood of Ancestors." The runes were fading, flickering like dying lightbulbs. The helmet was intact.

  "Imposs... ible..." the speaker gurgled. "Savage..."

  "Hard to kill, you louse..." spitting a clot of blood, the Chief walked right up to him. He pressed the barrel of the AK-74M right against the faceplate of the helmet, right where the dimming red lights burned. "Welcome to Quilla, ugly."

  A long burst. Point-blank. Armor-piercing bullets with tungsten cores stitched through the visor at that distance, turning the "demigod's" head into a mash of electronics, bone, and brain. The eye lenses went dark forever.

  Silence returned to the gorge. Only the tinkling of shell casings and the sound of the wind.

  "One... One, respond... we are inbound... visual on smoke..." a voice broke through the ringing in his ears from the fallen radio.

  But the Chief didn't hear it anymore. The adrenaline ran out. The Promedol shut down his consciousness. The world tilted and flipped. He collapsed onto the cooling stones, face up to the starry sky, surrounded by the bodies of friends and foes, sinking into saving darkness.