Second Civilized Region. Occupied Territories of the Kingdom of Leifor.

  Leiforia City. Representation of the Foreign Affairs Bureau of the Gra-Valkas Empire.

  (Timeframe: Several days before the Armada's departure to sea).

  In a spacious office paneled with mahogany—which marauders had requisitioned from the looted mansions of local nobility—hung the heavy, spicy scent of expensive tobacco. Beyond the tall lancet windows that had survived the bombing lay the conquered capital, gray with ash and hopelessness, but here, inside, reigned the atmosphere of victors—a blend of barracks comfort and trophy luxury.

  "Madame Cielia notified me of your impending visit via a secure channel, honorable Special Representative. I hope you arrived without incident? Help yourself. Danian tobacco, hand-rolled. One of the best varieties in the entire Gra-Valkas Empire. We value quality."

  The man in an impeccably fitted black uniform of the Foreign Affairs Bureau with silver embroidery, the master of the office and "Governor-General of the Diplomatic Corps," extended an open silver cigarette case.

  His counterpart, sitting in the armchair opposite, seemed an alien element in this world of uniforms. A man in an expensive dark blue three-piece civilian suit, with an impeccably knotted tie and a light, noble gray at his temples, slowly nodded. His face, smooth and impenetrable like that of a professional poker player, expressed nothing but polite attention.

  "Without incident, thank you," his voice was even and quiet, but one could sense the habit of issuing orders that were not to be discussed.

  The Russian representative—in the documents, he was listed as "Consultant Yegorov"—extracted a cigarillo with two fingers. In his other hand, a lighter clicked. It was neither petrol nor a match. A thin violet arc of plasma silently crossed the air, instantly igniting the tobacco. Dallas, observing this fleeting display of technology, gave a barely perceptible twitch of his cheek. Just another small but irritating reminder of who was actually technologically advanced here.

  "Does this thing really frighten you so much that you arrived personally to oversee the shipment?" Dallas suddenly inquired, blowing a thick stream of smoke at the ceiling. He stood up and walked leisurely, with a proprietary air, to the panoramic window overlooking the Leiforia naval shipyard.

  There, below, against the backdrop of the bay's leaden water, work was in full swing. But this was not the usual port bustle with the shouts of stevedores and the whistles of boatswains. There reigned anordered chaos without haste, characteristic only of top-class professionals.

  Dallas looked down, squinting. At the pier, next to the predatory silhouette of a Gra-Valkas supply cruiser, stood two heavy black trucks with no license plates, clearly not of local manufacture.

  A powerful port crane, with a strained howl, lifted a large container lined with lead sheets and slowly lowered it into the gaping maw of the hold. The clang of metal, audible even through the double-paned windows, made the glass in the office vibrate.

  "Frighten? No, Mr. Dallas. Fear is an unproductive emotion," the Russian's voice sounded from behind him. "We merely wish to obtain verified data. To learn what the real tactical and technical characteristics ofthis object are in conditions approximating combat. Theory without practice is dead."

  Dallas snorted dismissively, spun on his heels, and flopped back into his leather armchair, carelessly draping his hand with the smoking cigarillo over the armrest. He was annoyed by this secrecy. Annoyed that he was forced to tolerate these people on his territory who behaved as if they were the masters and he merely a temporary manager.

  "They are savages," he threw out, referring to the combined fleet of Mirishial and Mu. "They gathered a pile of driftwood and think it's an armada. They just won't settle down... We will crush them. We won't even need your weapon, or whatever is in that box. It will be like clay pigeon shooting."

  The Russian "consultant" slowly leaned forward. The light fell on his face, and in his gray eyes, Dallas saw something that made his forehead break out in a cold sweat. There was an abyss of experience there—experience of wars far more terrible than anything Gra-Valkas had ever seen.

  "Mr. Dallas," his counterpart interrupted softly, and in this softness lay the hidden threat of a razor wrapped in silk. "History is written by the victors, but it is fertilized with the blood of the losers. One can overestimate an enemy—that is an error of strategy. But one can never underestimate him. That is an error of survival. Pride is poor armor. Otherwise, in the worst-case scenario, one might not simply lose. One might wash one's face in one's own blood until one drowns."

  Toward the end of the phrase, the Russian ambassador allowed himself a smile. A polite, diplomatic smile involving only his lips. But it seemed to Dallas that it was not a man looking at him, but a predator from another, crueler world. A wolf baring its teeth not out of anger, but simply because it knows exactly where to bite so the prey dies instantly. The Imperial diplomat's back was covered with a herd of cold, nasty goosebumps.

  Truth be told, the only ones who scared him to the point of trembling in this world of "savages" and mages were these Russian ambassadors. They emanated not military might, but some kind of otherworldly, bureaucratic force and the sepulchral, age-old cold of a civilization that had survived its own end of the world and come back. He couldn't explain his feeling, but his instinct for self-preservation screamed:"They are more dangerous than us."

  Central Region. Baulos Sea.

  Northwest of the Mu Continent. Deployment Zone of the Imperial Fleet.

  The superdreadnoughtAtlastarled the formation, cutting through the leaden waves with its gargantuan prow. This ship, having undergone its baptism of fire in the waters of Leifor and proven its absolute, overwhelming power, had rightfully taken its place as the flagship of the Imperial Armada. Its 72,000-ton displacement and nine 460-millimeter guns were not merely weapons—they were the material embodiment of the Gra-Valkas Empire's will to dominate. Around it, as far as the eye could see, the horizon bristled with the masts, funnels, and gun turrets of hundreds of pennants sailing to die or to conquer.

  AdmiralCaesar, a man whose name had already become synonymous with the ruthlessness of the Eastern Fleet, was appointed Commander-in-Chief of this Doomsday Armada. He stood on the wing of the bridge, gripping the railings, the wind flapping the hem of his greatcoat. But the usual predatory triumph was absent from his eyes. Instead, a cold, irritated tension congealed there.

  Through the crackle of static, the voice of the Chief of Operations burst through the loudspeaker:

  "Eagle-1 reporting! Visual contact with enemy advance units. The First 'Antares' Strike Air Group has engaged, but... we are taking casualties! The enemy is employing heavy barrage fire of an unknown type. Formation is broken. Requesting immediate support from the Second Strike Wave! I repeat, we need reserves!"

  Upon hearing the report, Caesar clicked his tongue in irritation, a deep vertical furrow appearing on his forehead. This entire situation—from start to finish—infuriated him beyond measure. He, an admiral of the greatest empire, was forced to pull his punches.

  First, there was that humiliating secret dispatch bearing the Emperor's personal seal, delivered by courier back at the Leiforia roadstead:"Extend a courteous welcome and full assistance to the specialists of the Russian Federation. Any disobedience is grounds for court-martial."

  And then they appeared. The "Russians." Grim, taciturn men in impeccably tailored dark blue suits who looked at his magnificent battleship not with admiration, but with polite, professional condescension—as if looking at a beautiful museum piece.

  Caesar involuntarily glanced sideways. There, next to the familiar gun crews, an ugly, angular container of a dirty-green color protruded like an alien growth, entangled in cables. An alien device. It had been welded directly to the deck of one of the smaller ships. Barbarism. Ugliness. An insult to engineering ingenuity!

  But he dared not object. Especially after the Russian "consultant," a GRU Colonel, had laid high-resolution color photographs before him without a hint of emotion.

  That was when Caesar first experienced true fear—not fear of the photo quality, but of the impossibility of what was depicted.

  Captured on the glossy paper , levitating fortresses capable of raining death from the heavens. The Russians claimed that these "Celestial Ships" would arrive at the theater of operations any minute now.

  The Admiral despised cowardice, but he despised stupidity even more. Lying to oneself while staring at the facts was a job for idiots. If this flying saucer possessed magical shields, which the Russians assessed as "super-dense," his 460-millimeter shells might prove useless. And then, the only hope would remain that accursed Russian device.

  The report from the speaker snapped him back to reality.

  "Casualties in the vanguard are rising! The enemy is employing magic saturation tactics!"

  Caesar clenched his teeth. This was no time for doubt. War is mathematics, and he had to tip the equation in his favor before theChimerasappeared on the radar.

  "I order!"he barked into the microphone, his voice drowning out the hum of the ventilation."Second Strike Wing—immediate takeoff! Link up with the First Heavy Strike Group! Double the fighter escort. Crush their resistance with mass! Execute!"

  "Yes, Your High Excellency! Attack code — 'Hammer'!"

  The sea churned. A massive segment separated from the main, boundless bulk of the Armada. Dozens of ships, smoke belching from their funnels, began to redeploy. From the decks of the aircraft carriers, hundreds of planes began to lift off one after another with a roar, spewing gray smoke and covering the gray sky with their wings. The second wave, steel locusts of the industrial age, moved East to meet magic, under the cover of heavy clouds and the Second Escort Wing.

  Central World. Beyond the Baulos Sea.

  Flagship Battleship of the First Fleet of the Holy Mirishial Empire —Lotto (Mithrilclass).

  On the spacious bridge of theLotto, sparkling with polished metal and crystals, a tense, vibrating silence reigned.

  Only the quiet, melodic hum of magi-computers and the rustle of air purification fans could be heard. But this peace was deceptive. Everyone present felt the tremor of the deck beneath their feet—the giant ship was steaming at full speed, devouring mana from the reactors with the greed of a starving monster.

  The Executive Officer, a young aristocrat with impeccable bearing, looked up from his tactical tablet, across the surface of which ran glowing runes of data.

  "Forecasts are far from optimistic, Your Excellency," his voice was dry, but tension showed through. "The Allied vanguard is smashed. According to observer data, most of the Mu naval forces have ceased to exist as a combat unit. They were blanketed from the air."

  "Damn spawn..." Commander-in-Chief of the Combined Fleet, AdmiralLettal Cauran, whispered angrily, not taking his eyes off his heavy binoculars.

  On the horizon, where the sea merged with the sky, thick, oily black pillars of smoke rose into the zenith. Those were the burning ships of Mu—angular steel boxes running on oil. Cauran grimaced as if from a toothache.

  "They accomplished their task," he uttered, regaining his icy self-control and handing the binoculars to the ship's captain.

  "They bought us two hours and forced the enemy to show their hand. Mu is merely collateral damage in a war of titans. All the dirty and great work now lies upon us."

  Suddenly, the communications operator's manacom emitted a sharp, alarming beep, demanding attention.

  "Commander! Urgent message from the Seventh Light Reconnaissance Air Wing! Visual contact!" the operator's voice cracked into a falsetto. "Our radars are blind, sir, the target isn't emitting in the ether, but the pilots see them with their eyes! Main enemy forces spotted! It's an armada!"

  The operator swallowed hard, checking the trembling figures of the decryption.

  "Ten super-heavy class battleships. Nine aircraft carrier platforms. No fewer than forty cruisers. Destroyers... beyond count. They are advancing in a line, occupying half the horizon."

  Cauran's lips pressed into a thin white line.

  His worst fears were confirmed. The Conductive Type Radars, the pride of Imperial science, were silent because the steel hulls of the enemy were "dead" to magic. They didn't see the enemy until he appeared right under their noses. It was a war of the blind against the sighted.

  "Two hundred pennants... And the 'Atlastar'. They have gathered everything they have here."

  There was no hesitation. There was nowhere to retreat—the Empire lay astern.

  "Signal the fleet: Battle Stations Number One! Course—intercept! We will force battle upon them on our terms!"

  The deck of theLottovibrated more strongly. And from the flight decks of the escort carriers (Rodeus-class and converted transports), the Empire's trump cards began to rise into the sky.

  First went the newest Beta-3 bombers of the late series. Fresh from the slipways of Runepolis factories, still smelling of varnish and grease, they differed from those that perished over Magdola. The fuselage was lengthened and reinforced with mithril ribs, the wings received a more advanced profile, connecting with the tail stabilizers for stability at high speeds. New magic-compression engines roared with a bass note, allowing them to carry super-heavy anti-ship "Judgment Day" bombs under their bellies.

  And following them, filling the air with an unbearable, crackling howl resembling the operation of a giant chainsaw, modifiedAlpha-X3fightersshot into the sky like candles.

  This was the hope and pain of Imperial aviation. Machines without propellers, with straight short wings and thick "barrels" of pulsating magic engines under the belly. They looked clumsy, but there was power in them.

  "Protect the bombers! Don't let those mechanical flies get close!" raced through the ether.

  Squadrons reorganized in the air, covering the sky with a shimmering shield. The Empire was throwing everything into the fight.

  Central Region. Baulos Sea.

  Flagship Superdreadnought Atlastar. Combat Information Center.

  Time: 10:15.

  The hum of vacuum tube amplifiers in the radar compartment gave way to the persistent, rhythmic beeping of a buzzer. The radar operator, a young non-commissioned officer, fixed his gaze on the green oscilloscope screen, across which crawled ripples of interference.

  "Attention, bridge! Multiple contacts!" his voice was tense but devoid of panic. Gra-Valkas drill was doing its job. "Bearing zero-three-zero, northeast. Group target. Moving in echelon, altitude — three thousand. Range — one hundred eighty kilometers."

  The operator adjusted the sweep knob and frowned.

  "Speed measurement... Stop. Is this a calibration error? Speed 550 km/h! Repeat, speed of air targets — three hundred knots! Quantity... thirty... fifty... More than a hundred blips! And they are not maneuvering; they are coming on an intercept course via the shortest route."

  The Commander-in-Chief of the Armada, AdmiralCaesar, standing by the observation porthole, slowly turned to the tactical map. There was no fear in his eyes, only the cold glint of a gambler who saw that the opponent had finally made an interesting move. He allowed himself to grin slightly, almost predatorily.

  "What do you say, Captain Adre?" he turned to his aide, a young, promising staff officer who stood nearby, clutching a clipboard. "Analyze."

  Adre quickly scanned the summary.

  "One of the Mu scouts we let slip managed to transmit the fleet's coordinates before being shot down," he enunciated clearly. "This is a reaction. Strike aviation. They are trying to seize the initiative and launch a bombing run on our forward cruisers before we deploy into battle formation."

  "Correct," Caesar nodded, smiling with the corner of his mouth. "But you are missing the main point, my friend. Speed."

  The Admiral clasped his hands behind his back and began to slowly pace the bridge, his steps echoing hollowly against the metal. He spoke in the tone of a professor at a military academy, though a slaughter was brewing all around.

  "They are flying too fast. These are the very ones intelligence warned us about. The Mirishial Empire has thrown its last reserve into battle." Caesar stopped. "We cannot allow them to approach the ships. Even a single bomb dropped on the deck of an aircraft carrier full of fueled planes is a catastrophe. So what is the solution, Adre?"

  The aide understood the hint.

  "We will not let them enter the anti-aircraft artillery engagement zone," he said rapidly, correcting his train of thought. "We will intercept them at the long-range perimeter. Head-on fighter combat. The Antares must tie them up in battle and destroy them before they see our masts."

  "Precisely," Caesar patted the aide on the shoulder. The Admiral's heavy palm landed with weight, approvingly. "You are getting smarter, Adre. Transmit to the carriers: 'Red Alert'. Second wave of fighters — intercept. Free hunt. Knock this arrogance out of the skies."

  The Admiral's approving grin hid a shadow of anxiety in his eyes. If the barbarians had a hundred machines with a speed of 550 km/h — this was no longer a shooting gallery. This was war.

  At the same time. The sky over neutral waters.

  A strange, squealing hum, similar to the sound of a gigantic string snapping, filled the cold sea air.

  The consolidated air fleet of the Holy Mirishial Empire moved to the attack. In the vanguard, arrayed in a wedge formation, flew the new modification Alpha-X3 fighters. Imperial engineers had performed a miracle. They had shaved off excess weight, removed the bulky landing gear (replacing it with drop-skis for a one-time takeoff), and boosted the mana-compressors. The fuselages became smoother, predatory. Now these machines could hold a speed of 550 km/h in horizontal flight, and up to 660 in a dive.

  These were no longer clumsy prototypes. These were javelins soaked in magic and hatred.

  Coming against them, emerging from the clouds below, were flights ofAntaresfighters.

  The Gra-Valkas pilots, confident in their superiority, went for a head-on attack, counting on superior weaponry. They were used to the enemy being slow.

  "Targets in sight! Initiating turn, gonna cut him down now!" the GVE flight leader shouted excitedly into the radio.

  He began a classic maneuver—a combat turn, expecting the enemy to start lagging behind.

  But theAlpha-X3didn't turn. The pilot simply pulled the stick back and added thrust. A jet of compressed air from the nozzle flared blue, and the Mirishial fighter, ignoring gravity, shot straight up like a candle, ending up above theAntares.

  "Wha... What the?!" the Gra-Valkan exhaled in bewilderment.

  And at that moment, theAlpha'sforward guns engaged. These were not machine guns. Magic concentrators flared in the wing planes.

  Caseless, weightless "light bullets"—clumps of plasma—had no ballistic drop. They flew in a straight line, like laser beams.

  "Gotcha!" the Mirishial pilot yelled.

  Br-r-r-r-zzzzt!—the strange, crackling sound of discharge.

  A swarm of blue fireflies stitched through the cockpit and engine of theAntaresfrom a distance of eight hundred meters—where ordinary machine guns were still useless.

  Aluminum flashed. The motor shattered into pieces. A tracer burst passed through the canopy, vaporizing the Gra-Valkas pilot's head along with his headset. The smoking wreck, which a second ago had been a proud ace, fell onto its wing and tumbled toward the water.

  "Ha! Our turn, scum! Eat magic!" the Mirishial flyer shouted emotionally, with wild delight, releasing the fire control triggers.

  He watched the "invincible" iron birds fall. Today, physics malfunctioned. The rage of an ancient race found an outlet. The sky burst into flames.

  On the modernizedAlpha-X3interceptors, Mirishial engineers went all-in. Understanding that they might still lose in speed, they bet on fire density. Instead of the standard pair of forward emitters,fourheavy light-magic machine guns "Rai-Gon" were now mounted in the nose section and wing roots.

  The storage crystals in these weapons operated in "forced drain" mode. The muzzle energy of the pulse tripled.

  The rate of fire resembled the scream of a circular saw. But this power came at a price.

  On the dashboard of the Imperial Aviation lead flight, ruby indicators of barrel temperature blinked alarmingly.

  "They're overheating, damn them! Cooling isn't holding!" the pilot yelled, jamming the trigger.

  Complex chains of "Permafrost" runes, woven from Water and Ice magic, snaked along the gun ports. They were supposed to dissipate the monstrous heat generated by mana, but the intensity of the battle exceeded all calculated limits. Runes hissed, evaporating; the plating metal around the barrels began to glow cherry-red, threatening to melt and jam the breech.

  But that would be later. Right now, they were killing.

  The main, fatal advantage of the magic machine gun over its technical counterpart, which the Gra-Valkas aces failed to account for, lay in the physics of the shot. A clot of concentrated light, released by magic, had practically no mass in the conventional laws of gravity and friction did not act upon bullet did not fall in an arc, losing energy. Wind did not drift it sideways.

  The magic projectile flew in a perfect straight line, like a laser, retaining lethal force to the very end.

  The pilot of Antares number "12" laid a sharp turn, trying to escape the head-on attack of the Mirishial. He acted out of habit:"Distance 800, he's leading the target, I dive down, bullets pass high..."

  He dived.

  But the tracers didn't pass high. Ignoring the earth's pull, they stitched through his canopy and head along the exact straight line the mage had aimed.

  FLASH!

  "Got one! It's burning!" a joyful howl on the radio drowned out the crackle of static.

  It seemed like a miracle. The invincible steel birds were falling! For the first time in the entire campaign, they burned not from accidents, but from systematic fire. Gra-Valkas planes, which previously seemed like invulnerable ghosts, ran into this invisible wall of direct fire, flared up like torches, and, leaving black smoky tails, spiraled into the leaden sea.

  "Aha! Take that, bastards?!" the squadron commander's voice cracked into a falsetto. "Here's your 'backward magic'! Eat it! Our eggheads didn't eat their bread and caviar for nothing! This machine is a beast!"

  Exultation bordering on hysteria sounded in the headphones. They, who were considered suicide bombers, had struck a blow to the smug face of the other-worldly adversary, and this blow was juicy, with the crunch of bones.

  However, Gra-Valkas wouldn't be a Superpower if it surrendered after the first knockdown.

  The enemy recovered from the shock instantly. TheAntaresformation broke. They stopped playing "knightly joust" and engaged "dogfight" mode.

  "All flights! Close quarters! Clinch! Cut the distance, they turn like logs!" a command passed on the Imperial frequency.

  Space contracted. Hundreds of planes mixed into a gigantic, roaring tangle. The sky became cramped with wings and fire.

  Here, at a dagger-fighting distance of 50-100 meters, the advantage of direct ballistics was nullified, and maneuverability came to the fore.

  Now and then, with sickening regularity, fiery buds of fuel tank and ammo explosions bloomed in the sky.

  Detonating machines vanished in balls of flame even before they hit the water. But now, everyone was burning.

  "On my tail! Six o'clock! Shake him!" screamed a Mirishial as a tracer burst of Antares 20-millimeter shells sawed off his tail assembly.

  Alphas exploded. Their jet engines were vulnerable, and the pilots couldn't withstand G-forces like the centrifuge-trained Gra-Valkas. But the Antares got theirs too. A burst from four barrels at point-blank range tore duralumin plating to shreds.

  It was a meat grinder of equals. Technology versus magic, experience versus rage.

  A Mirishial flyer, pulling a loop-the-loop, caught the enemy's belly in his sights and squeezed the trigger, feeling the overheated machine gun spit plasma. A Gra-Valkas ace, seeing tracers at his temple, yanked the stick back, forcing the machine into a supercritical angle of attack to let the enemy overshoot and strike him in the back.

  Tricks, desperate ruses, deceptive turns on the verge of stalling into a spin, extreme piloting—everything went into play. They killed each other with the frenzy of the doomed, understanding: the first to blink or lose speed is a corpse.

  A short while later. The waters of the Baulos Sea.

  Flagship of the HME First Fleet, battleship Lotto.

  Battle Bridge.

  "Commander of the First Air Assault Squadron reporting!" The voice in the speaker of the long-rangemanacombroke through the crackle of ethereal interference caused by dozens of explosions. It sounded hoarse, pushed to the limit of physical endurance, but a vicious thrill rang within it.

  "We are engaged in heavy combat with the enemy on the southwest vector. These demon spawn are holding fast! They have excellent flight coordination. But the new guns are doing their job... We are pushing them back, sir! I see smoke trails of downed aircraft! We are breaking their formation!"

  "Copy, 'First.' Maintain pressure, but do not get carried away with the chase. Stay under the fleet's umbrella," the Senior CIC Operator replied calmly, maintaining a mask of icy confidence, though his fingers nervously drummed a beat on the tabletop.

  At that moment, like a bolt from the blue, the silence on the port side of the bridge was shattered by the shrill scream of a lookout.

  The officer was pointing west, beyond the glass, to where the sky merged with the water.

  "Enemy monoplane! Visual contact! Bearing two-seven-zero! Extreme altitude!"

  Every head instantly turned to the left.

  High in the sky, a silver dot gleamed.

  It was a high-speed Gra-Valkas reconnaissance aircraft. Having spotted the main Mirishial forces, the pilot executed a steep bank at a ninety-degree angle, flashing his duralumin underbelly in the sun, and, engaging afterburners, sharply reversed course, rapidly speeding away.

  "Damn..." AdmiralCauranwhispered.

  He clearly saw the cause for concern. The speed of this lone scout visually exceeded everything at the Empire's disposal, even the vaunted jetBeta-2s. It was moving so fast that the anti-aircraft guns simply couldn't traverse their barrels in time. And worst of all—the magical radars, tuned to search for mana emanations, remained blind. They could detect this piece of "dead" metal with an engine only at point-blank range, and visual detection gave the enemy a head start of tens of kilometers.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The Admiral summed it up grimly:

  "They've figured us out. They've memorized our formation, composition, and course. Now they have complete information. Their bombers will be here soon. Prepare for battle."

  But it wasn't the tactical consequences occupying the minds of some officers on the bridge.

  One of the aides, a young lieutenant-historian attached to headquarters from the capital's Academy, stood by the window, gripping the railings with white-knuckled fingers. His face had taken on the color of stale linen, his lips were trembling, and his gaze was riveted to the contrail melting in the haze.

  "I-It can't be... Could it be?! Is it true?.." his whisper, filled with mystical horror, sounded frighteningly loud in the ensuing silence.

  "What 'could it be,' Lieutenant? What are you mumbling about? Pull yourself together!" barked the Watch Officer, irritated by the subordinate's behavior.

  But the man seemed not to hear.

  "It's... The Di... Divine Ships... The Chariots of the Emissaries of the Supreme God!" he exhaled, his teeth chattering. "The legends didn't lie... They have returned!"

  "Nonsense," dismissed a third officer reviewing the summary, though there was no steadiness in his voice. "It is simply barbarian technology."

  "NONSENSE?! ARE YOU BLIND?!" the Lieutenant suddenly roared, spiraling into hysteria. Forgetting subordination, he feverishly yanked at the clasp of his field bag, tearing out a folder of documents. Sheets of parchment scattered across the floor.

  "Look! Look, you idiot!" he stabbed a finger at one of the fallen drawings. It was a copy of an ancient fresco found during excavations in the lands of Topa. "Here they are! The 'Divine Wings' that descended from the heavens in the Hour of Greatest Need millennia ago! Look at this silhouette!"

  The second officer involuntarily lowered his gaze to the drawing beneath his boot.

  On the parchment, drawn by the diligent hand of an ancient artist, was a flying apparatus. A narrow fuselage, a single low-mounted wing, a propeller on the nose, and... a glass teardrop canopy. It was the exact silhouette that had just roared over their heads.

  The officer's back was drenched in a cold, sticky sweat. A prickly lump rose in his throat.

  For centuries, the Holy Mirishial Empire had sought the legacy of the Ancient Gods. And now they had found it. Only now, the "Messengers" sat in the cockpits of enemy machines, locking their sights onto Imperial ships. A mind raised on myths about the greatness of the "Sons of the Supreme God" refused to accept this monstrous reality.

  Cauran, who had until then maintained a gloomy silence, stepped forward. His shadow covered both the panic-monger and the scattered drawings.

  He stepped with a heavy boot onto the image of the "divine airplane," crumpling the paper with a crunch.

  "Be that as it may," the Admiral of the First Fleet pronounced. His voice was calm, but the weight of granite could be felt within it. "Whoever they were in the past—saviors, demons, or gods... Today, they are shooting at our people. A legend attempting to kill my sailors becomes simply a target. A sworn enemy is a sworn enemy."

  He swept a heavy gaze over the silenced officers.

  "Nothing is eternal under the moons. If we must kill messengers to save the Empire, we will kill them. End this hysteria immediately. Proceed with your assigned tasks."

  "YES, SIR!" a synchronized, disciplined, albeit slightly cracked chorus of voices replied.

  The officers rushed to their consoles, trying to drown out their fear with work. Mirishial was preparing for battle not only against the Gra-Valkas fleet but also against the ghosts of its own past, which had suddenly turned frighteningly material.

  In the dimly lit CIC, illuminated only by anxious flickering and flashes on the tactical map, a heavy, sticky tension hung in the air.

  Just as the analysts from the Technical Bureau had warned, the magic radars tuned to search for ethereal disturbances turned out to be almost blind. The steel birds of the Gra-Valkas Empire, devoid of a grain of magic, appeared on screens only upon visual contact or at critically close range.

  "First Assault Squadron online!" the pilot's voice in the manacom speaker cracked from G-forces and roar. "Reporting! Seeing multiple crashes. Confirm destruction of forty enemy monoplanes! Our losses... forty-four aircraft 'irretrievable'. Fuel and mana running low. Departing for rotation and link-up with the Second Wave!"

  "Copy. Return under the air defense umbrella. No pursuit," the senior operator replied. He wiped sweat from his forehead and exhaled with relief, though his voice trembled. "At least someone survived..."

  Forty for forty-four. A year ago, such an exchange would have seemed catastrophic. Today, against the "steel devils," it was considered a miracle.

  The modernized machine guns were bearing fruit. But Gra-Valkas played the numbers game.

  "Sixth Squadron reporting!" a new voice full of panic burst into the ether. "Sector 'West'! We are being pressed! There are too many of them! They are dropping on us from above! We lack turn speed!"

  "Eighth Squadron! Emergency report!" interrupted a third voice. "Detecting new massive concentration! Three large bomber groups to the southwest! They are flanking us! Heading straight for the formation! Time to engagement zone entry — three minutes!"

  AdmiralCauranclenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. The enemy was perfectly aware of every fleet movement, as if seeing through clouds, while Cauran himself was reading tea leaves.

  "A-A-A! I'M BURNING!" a panicked, heart-rending scream of an interceptor squadron pilot tore the ether apart, making officers on the bridge flinch. "Shoot him down! Get him off my tail! We're being slaught..."

  Explosion. Deafening silence of white noise. And again the crackle of battle.

  The Gra-Valkans weren't just killing—they were methodically cleansing the sky. Using numerical superiority and vertical maneuver, theAntarespulled theAlphaformation apart, then shot them down like in a shooting gallery. Magic radar was useless.

  Cauran walked to the armored glass. What he saw made the blood drain from his face.

  In breaks in the clouds, like a swarm of black locusts, dozens... no, hundreds of dots approached the fleet.

  "Can it be... are there so many of them?" he whispered dazedly, watching the inevitable avalanche of steel. "Where do they get so many resources?!"

  But time for reflection ran out.

  He slapped himself on the cheek with a swing, bringing himself to his senses.

  "BATTLE STATIONS! SKY!" he yelled, drowning out the roar of battle. "All fleet — prepare to repel air attack! I order 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Reserve 'Alpha' Squadrons — scramble! Cover the flagship! Shoot down only bombers! Others — hold formation!"

  "Magic anti-aircraft guns — target acquired! Ready to open fire!"

  Ships shuddered. Hell blossomed in the sky. Light shells of Mirishial AA guns and tracers of Gra-Valkas machine guns wove into a deadly web.

  Antaresfighters, flying nap-of-the-earth, sprayed decks with lead, punching holes in Mirishial defenses to clear the way for their "heavy cavalry" —Siriusdive bombers.

  Those, taking advantage of the chaos, began to roll into dives with a howl that made teeth vibrate.

  Target — the elite of the First Civilized Zone.

  ONE MINUTE.

  This minute stretched into eternity.

  QuadActaeonmagic autocannon mounts rattled, ejecting clumps of pure plasma into the sky. Blue tracers went into the zenith, seeking metal. One of theSiriusbombers, taking a direct hit to the engine, turned into a fireball and, leaving a trail of greasy black smoke, crashed into the water a hundred meters from the battleship's side.

  But this didn't stop the rest.

  The sound of diving bombers — that very "Jericho trumpet" howl of sirens mounted on the landing gear — grew, turning into physical pain. It was a sound promising death.

  "Mana in conduits! Shield circuit closed!" reported the magic officer under the bridge, his face wet with sweat. "Activating 'Light Bastion'!"

  A golden-white dome flared aroundLotto— the Empire's last hope. But the bombers were already above them.

  "Hard to starboard! Flank speed!" Cauran ordered loudly, gripping the rail. "Getting out of the attack vector!"

  The battleship, displacing tens of thousands of tons, listed, churning the water stream with propellers. It slowly, agonizingly slowly began to turn its nose away.

  Overhead, a characteristic, soul-chilling mechanical clank was heard. The metallic scrape of trapezes ejecting heavy armor-piercing bombs beyond the propeller arc.

  CLICK-WOOOOOSH...

  Death separated from the pylons.

  ANOTHER MINUTE...

  The second, infinitely long minute stretched into a viscous nightmare. The sound ofSiriusdive bombers, that mechanical howl that set teeth on edge and froze the gut, reached its apogee.

  From the heavens, like hail from hell, black teardrop silhouettes poured down.

  Through the overload of mana-shields and the roar of their own AA guns, that inimitable, rising whistle was heard — the sound of air being sliced by steel carrying half a ton of TNT.

  The first series of bombs overshot, sending up fountains of water. But one bomb went straight to the target — into the deck where AA crews crowded.

  At that moment, the battleship Frilla, sailing on the port side in the cover formation, traversed its dual-purpose turrets.

  "Cover the flagship! Fire 'Squall'!" its captain yelled.

  Quad magic autocannon mounts created a dense wall of lightning and plasma discharges right on the bombs' descent trajectory. Magic capable of vaporizing matter met gravity. In the air, a hundred meters above the water, fireballs of premature detonations bloomed. Shrapnel drummed onLotto'sbarrier like steel rain, but the strike itself was deflected.

  But luck isn't endless.

  Far in the sky, through breaks in clouds, another explosion rang out. More dull, heavy, visceral. Such a sound metal makes when torn apart.

  "What is happening?!" AdmiralLettaldemanded quite loudly, drowning out the ringing in his ears. The shockwave from the close burst, leaking through shields, stunned him. A nasty, high-pitched whine stood in his head, and his own breathing seemed like the roar of blacksmith bellows. He brushed off plaster that appeared out of nowhere from his tunic.

  The communications officer, pressing a palm to his ear, listened into the ether crackle.

  "...Frilla is hit, sir! Direct aerial bomb hit to mid-superstructure! Fire on second deck!"

  "Frilla, report! Status!" ordered Cauran, wincing painfully from noise, and grabbed the manacom microphone.

  Through static interference broke the voice of Frilla'scaptain. He coughed, but the tone was vigorous, full of combat anger.

  "Frilla reporting! Took a hit to port side, amidships area. 'Light Bastion' absorbed kinetic energy, armored deck held! Damage to superstructures and comms antennas, several AA crews destroyed, but the ship is operational! Full speed! We can still fight, sir! These firecrackers don't take us!"

  Cauran exhaled with relief, feeling icy clamps on his heart loosen.

  "They held. Our new defense works. These barbarians cannot pierce us with one strike like they did with Pattes."

  At that moment, the buzzer of the long-range radar operator, that very "miracle" created by imperial engineers, beeped alarmingly.

  "Contact! Enemy approaching! Tenth Light Recon Patrol reports: observing group of low-flying targets! Northwest! Altitude — extremely low, over wave crests!"

  "What?!" the admiral barked dazedly, darting a glance at the sky crisscrossed by tracers and smoky tails of downed planes. Up there, a fierce dogfight boiled.

  MirishialAlpha-X3s, at the cost of incredible effort and losses, tied down GVE fighters in combat. But the admiral had no reserves left.

  No one could come to help from the skies to intercept this new threat.

  "I see them! Visual contact!" the lookout screamed. "Monoplanes! Heavy, single-engine! Flying 'wedge' formation! Distance — five kilometers!"

  These wereRigeltorpedo bombers. The very ones that sank the Southern Fleet. They came confidently, like a pack of sharks.

  "Saturate port side guns with mana! Barrage fire! Shoot them down!" commanded Cauran.

  The battleship's magic guns barked, sending a swarm of magic shells toward the planes. The sea around attacking planes boiled.

  TwoRigels, caught by the edge of bursts, tumbled into the water.

  "Hit! Enemy turning away! They are cowards! They are leaving!" the observer announced joyfully, almost hysterically. "They got scared of fire density!"

  Indeed, not reaching the distance of confident AA destruction, the formation of Gra-Valkas torpedo bombers broke. Planes sharply turned right and left, lying on reverse course without ever approaching the ships.

  However...

  "Captain, give me binoculars," Cauran said quietly. Crew's joy didn't transfer to him. His experience of an old warrior who went through dozens of naval battles suggested: something is wrong here. Cowards don't attack so disciplinedly. And they don't abandon fight just like that.

  "What are they doing? Why turn away now when they could get closer?"

  The admiral trained powerful optics on retreating plane silhouettes. His pupils constricted.

  He saw long, dark, cigar-shaped objects detach from machines' "bellies" and fall into water with heavy splash.

  "Bombs? Into sea? Why? Are they shedding weight to escape pursuit?"— that was first, saving thought.

  But objects didn't sink.

  Rigelsquadron commander knew his business. He understood fatality of head-on attack against battleships with shields and AA still intact.

  So he applied "Long Lance" tactics. Using advantage of his newest aerial torpedoes Model-3, he ordered drop from extreme distance, outside effective fire zone of magic guns.

  "Captain... water... look at water!" admiral's voice trembled.

  Dropped into "milk" "bombs" didn't disappear. Where they touched surface, foam breakers appeared. And then, leveling at set depth, dozens of deadly lines rushed toward battleship's side.

  White, churning stripes of foamed water resembling scars on ocean body. They moved fast. Too fast for magic.

  Straight line. And absolutely silently.

  Cauran's brain assembled puzzle in split second. Cartalpas. Pattes' report before death. "Tracks on water".

  "Son of a bitch..." noble elf cursed, forgetting etiquette and upbringing. Blood drained from his face. "TORPEDOES! IT'S TORPEDOES! HARD TO STARBOARD! FULL AHEAD!"

  His scream amplified by panic spread over bridge.

  "Evasive maneuver! Move it, bilge rats, or we all go to Sea God to dance with crabs! Hard over! Turn this barge nose to wave!"

  Multi-thousand-ton bulk ofLottoshuddered. Magic turbines howled, propellers churned water trying to move inert hull.

  Ship slowly, agonizingly slowly began to list, leaving death fan trajectory.

  Admiral gripping rail watched foam tracks. They will pass by. Flagship makes it in time.

  "Calling Frilla! Frilla, immediate evasive maneuver! Torpedoes from port side! Turn! EXECUTE!" he yelled into manacom microphone looking at nearby battleship.

  Frilla'screw intoxicated by repelling attack and surviving under bombs hesitated. They didn't look at water; they looked at sky expecting new planes.

  Battleship began turn but too late.

  Flagship managed to dodge; white tracks passed meters from its stern.

  But three foam dashes launched by closing Rigel flight inevitably like fate slammed into unprotected exposed side of Frilla.

  On bridge of battleship sailing in flagship's wake time seemed to thicken into viscous resin. Ship captain decorated veteran of colonial campaigns gripped rails till knuckles whitened. He saw these white foam dashes on leaden water and his sea wolf experience screamed: this is death. Getting away from fan of torpedoes cutting course of such huge inert hulk was physically impossible.

  "We won't make it... Rudder jams at such turns," captain whispered with lips white from terror. "Damn demons take them! All reactor energy — to shield! Saturate port side protective screens with mana! Maximum density! Brace for impact! Everyone hold on!"

  He squeezed eyes shut as if it could protect him from coming hell.

  INSTANT.

  Impact wasn't heard — it was felt with whole body. Ship displacing twenty thousand tons tossed like chip in waterfall.

  Hull emitted monstrous screeching grind — sound of tearing metal and bursting magic frame. To left covering sky rose three huge dirty-white pillars of water mixed with debris and black mud from hold bottom.

  Magic lost to physics. Torpedoes launched fromRigelsran at set depth of five meters. They wentundermain belt of magic protection "Water Aegis" covering side and struck unprotected belly of ship below armor belt.

  Three warheads 450 kilograms of explosives each detonated simultaneously.

  Hydrodynamic shock was terrible. Plating wasn't just pierced — it was turned inside out. Frames burst. Bulkheads of living compartments and holds folded like house of cards turning people inside into biomass.

  "Fourth, fifth and sixth sections! Breaches below waterline! Flooding critical! Engine room — contact lost! Reactor scramming!" damage control officer's report drowned in wail of emergency sirens.

  Magic battleship Frilla of fleet rapidly lost speed listing to port. Water rushed inside by thousands of tons.

  "Captain sir! Hydroacoustic contact!" sonarman yelled tearing listening crystal from head. "Four more tracks! They're finishing off!"

  Frilla commander concussed by first strike with cut brow and mad gaze swayed. He tried to command something but words stuck in throat. White noise of panic and crack of breaking hull drowned everything. He looked around fearfully understanding his ship was already dead; it just hadn't laid on bottom yet.

  "This is end..." captain whispered sepulchrally. He collapsed to knees looking at water-flooded deck and screamed so veins bulged on neck: "RUN! EVERYONE — OVERBOARD! SAVE YOURSELVES! I ORDER! IMMED..."

  Second wave of torpedoes struck hull center.

  Detonation of magic guns ammo superimposed on torpedo explosions. Flash of pure light illuminated sea. Battleship simply vanished in fireball. It was torn in half and stern with propellers spinning in air stood vertically for moment before crashing into abyss. Crew orders and screams drowned in roar of water and flame.

  Battleship Frilla"Golden" class was struck from fleet lists. Gra-Valkas Empire dealt another painful humiliating slap to Holy Mirishial Empire's ego proving steel and TNT stronger than magic.

  Flagship Battleship Lotto.

  "Battleships Milosand Palmida... signatures gone. Sunk. Mu's Sixth Carrier Group completely destroyed. Cruiser Pamiya burning, lost propulsion... Enemy aviation retreating for reload..." the radioman's voice was colorless, mechanical. The man behind the console had already burned out, simply broadcasting death.

  AdmiralLettal Cauranlistened to the reports with half an ear, clenching his fists until his nails dug into his palms drawing blood. He suddenly looked haggard, aged ten years. His impeccable uniform was soaked in the smell of burning, and darkness had settled in his eyes.

  They were not ready for this—dirty, technical, remote war of machines. Losing to a power devoid of magic, a power of "mechanics," was not just scary—it was offensively painful, to the point of physical agony. It was an insult to the very foundations of their world.

  The Admiral's thoughts darted to another power. To Russia.

  Having listened to backroom conversations in the General Staff, having read secret intelligence dossiers, Cauran knew: Russia was orders of magnitude more powerful than the Gra-Valkas Empire. Its missiles, its ships capable of seeing beyond the horizon... And this same Russia was feeding their refugees.

  Cauran remembered Cartalpas after the first bombardment. He saw with his own eyes how a huge, angular, strictly technical machine, which the Russians called a "mobile crane," lifted concrete slabs with incredible delicacy, helping builders restore residential quarters. He saw Russian doctors in strange green suits, shoulder to shoulder with imperial healers, saving the lives of soldiers torn by shrapnel, deploying tents with red crosses, pouring steaming soup from field kitchens.

  But what if they were the same as these Gra-Valkas bastards?

  What if instead of canned meat and bandages, they used their weapons?

  What then?

  Icy, sepulchral despair covered Lettal overhead. Then Mirishial would no longer exist. The Empire lived only because the strongest predator in the forest decided to stay vegetarian for now.

  Around the Admiral of the First Fleet, impossible, nightmarish events were unfolding; a world that seemed unshakeable for 4000 years was crumbling. The losses were heavy not only for him as a commander but for the entire sovereign pride of the nation.

  "I swear..." Lettal whispered, pulling a small gold locket with his daughter's portrait from his inner pocket. He opened it with trembling fingers. "We will avenge. Everyone. I swear by the blood of ancestors..." He squeezed his hand into a white-knuckled fist, hiding the locket near his heart.

  "CONTACT!" the lookout's scream sliced the silence. "Main forces! Enemy battle fleet spotted! Heading straight for us!"

  Cauran's eyes gleamed unhealthily, and crimson tongues of reflected fire danced in his dilated pupils. Despair gave way to the cold determination of a suicide bomber.

  "Excellent," he stood from his chair in one motion, squaring his shoulders. The mask of fatigue fell away. "Enough running. Decisive battle. Main caliber. Let's see whose steel is stronger and whose magic is angrier. Well, come here, bastards... Let's see who takes whom." A terrifying, menacing grin of a wolf cornered but ready to rip out a throat appeared on his face.

  At that moment, a special comms operator with Imperial Intelligence insignia ran onto the bridge. He was pale.

  "Commander, sir! Emergency incoming! Message received directly from the capital, via first priority line 'Ether-Zero'!"

  Cauran froze. First priority was the Emperor's line. It required stationary repeaters with the power of a city power plant.

  "From the capital?" he asked bewilderedly, looking at the encryptor. "How could they reach here? We are thousands of miles from repeaters... Unless they are using..."

  "How?.." Cauran exhaled, looking at the console.

  In the realities of ether war, the distance between the First Fleet's deployment and Runepolis was fatally large. Standard long-range manacoms under conditions of active interference (mana explosions, enemy EW) didn't reach even half the way. Moreover, security protocol categorically forbade transmitting "First Priority" (Emperor level) data through civilian communication hubs of vassal countries to prevent leakage or interception.

  The fact that the connection was established meant one thing: the signal source was much closer than the capital. And the power of this signal was monstrous.

  "Transmission is via encrypted direct-beam channel. Observing packet data loss and distortion, but... channel is stable. Source power is off the charts," muttered the intelligence lieutenant, whose fingers flew over the runic keyboard entering decryption codes he kept in memory under pain of death.

  He turned a massive switch.

  The main tactical situation screen occupying the central part of the bridge blinked, covered with snow static, and then cleared.

  The image that appeared before the exhausted, soot-stained fleet headquarters made everyone freeze.

  They saw not the familiar interior of the palace or defense staff. They saw a sterile, semi-dark room with black matte walls along which streams of liquid magic light ran. In the center of the frame were people.

  Or not people.

  They were dressed in full black uniforms without insignia, made of light-absorbing material. Faces were hidden by smooth, featureless white masks without slits for eyes and mouth, decorated only with the golden emblem of the Department — "Shattered Eye".

  It looked eerie. As if executioners from the underworld had made contact.

  The central figure in the mask stepped closer to the "camera". The voice transmitted by speakers was calm, polite, but steel and a sense of absolute superiority rang within it.

  "Glad to greet you in good health, comrades-in-arms. Though I see you took a heavy beating," said the masked man. "My name is Meteos Roguerider. I represent the Department of Countermeasures and Research of the Ancient Magic Empire's Legacy. At this moment, I am the commander of the task force of the Celestial Battleship Pal Chimera, hull number two."

  At these words, officers on the bridge gasped. Even Cauran himself, accustomed to the weight of shoulder straps, felt his heart skip a beat.

  "Pal-Chimera". Legend. Ghost.

  "His Holy Majesty the Emperor foresaw that the confrontation with the new barbarian threat would go beyond the capabilities of the conventional fleet," Meteos continued, his voice cold as space.

  "Therefore, by personal decree of the Throne, the seal of conservation has been lifted from our facilities. We have been sent to reinforce you. My squadron is entering your operational airspace sector. Estimated time of visual contact — ten minutes. Your tasks remain unchanged: hold formation. We take the sky."

  As the monologue of this "faceless man" continued, the eyes of everyone present widened more and more. From skepticism and fatigue, they went to shock, and finally — to reverent amazement bordering on religious ecstasy.

  Celestial Ships of thePal Chimera (Chimera-2)class.

  These machines were not created by Mirishial. They were found in deep bunkers and commissioned after centuries of reverse engineering. This was the authentic legacy of the Ancient Magic Empire Ravernal. Weapons with which continents were once enslaved.

  Even senior command staff knew about them only from whispers in the Academy corridors. Secrecy was absolute. All work with the legacy of the Once Former Hegemon was kept behind seven magical seals. People like Meteos and his crew — Department employees — formally did not exist. They lived in closed underground cities, never removed masks in public, and addressed each other exclusively by code names so that a potential enemy (or even their own citizens) would not form any associative links or identification possibilities. They were living dead who traded their identities for the right to wield the power of gods.

  And now these ghosts had come to enter the war.

  At the same time. The waters of the Baulos Sea (Western theater of operations).

  Flagship SuperdreadnoughtAtlastar.

  Strategic Bridge.

  The Combined Naval Fleet of the "Conference of the Elite Eleven" had been smashed, dismembered, and partially sent to the bottom. This was not a battle but a slaughter, yet the fate of the HME First Fleet—the most combat-capable formation of the Holy Empire—still hung by a thread. Yes, they were burning. Yes, they had lost their escorts. But these white ships continued to snap back with a stubbornness that forced many officers on the dreadnought's bridge to exchange their contemptuous smirks for frowning concentration.

  At this moment, the GVE First Heavy Strike Group — fresh Hercules-class battleships and cruisers ready to put an end to this bloody confrontation—was already steaming full speed toward the quadrant where the remnants of the Mirishial squadron were desperately maneuvering.

  AdmiralCaesar, Commander-in-Chief of the Armada, stood by the observation window, hands clasped behind his back. His face was reflected in the armored glass—hard, deeply lined, the face of a man who did not know how to smile. He did not hold this post for nothing. Unlike many court flatterers in Ragna, Caesar knew how to do the hardest thing for a military man—admit his mistakes.

  And now, looking at the burning but unyielding enemy ships, he admitted he was wrong.

  They are not savages. They are not "natives with sticks," as Cielia liked to say. Yes, their magic technology, these pompous"Mithrils", might be slightly behind the steel machines of his world. But they demonstrated something money cannot buy and design bureaus cannot invent—martial valor. The ability to stand under a steel downpour and die with honor, holding formation until the last second. No matter how much his subordinates laughed at their magic, Caesar stopped deceiving himself.

  In the smoke of fires on the horizon, he saw not an enemy. He saw in their reflection himself and his comrades... thirty years ago.

  He felt it in his gut: something was wrong. This adversary did not wear the title of hegemon for millennia for nothing. Such power is not held on a bluff. Mirishial is a sleeping giant, grown fat, lazy, accustomed to peace and easy victories. Its army had become "ceremonial," and its fleet was commanded by politicians.

  But Caesar knew the laws of history.

  It will take time. Terrible, bloody time to reforge itself. To learn to hate for real. To replace dress uniforms with field mud, and aristocratic arrogance with the bestial efficiency of total war. This transformation will be paid for with mothers' tears, ruins of cities, and millions of lives.

  But when (and if) it is complete—a monster equal to the GVE in rage will rise before them. A wartime army.

  The Admiral knew this firsthand.

  In his youth, there, on his home planet ofYggdra, their people were the same. Well-fed, cultured, touched by the decay of hedonism. They thought history had ended.

  And then came theKains. Strangers from the neighboring superpower, theDivine Kingdom of Kain, located on the continent ofBemunia. Ruthless invaders with an ideology of racial superiority.

  That war didn't just kill millions. It burned out the soul of an entire generation. It smelted the nation. From slipshod, pampered youths, it forged the "Iron Men" of the Gra-Valkas Empire—through sweat, through blood, through the loss of loved ones, and the understanding that there would be no mercy.

  "You die today, and I'll die tomorrow"—this phrase became a prayer in the trenches of Yggdra. Twenty years of total cruelty and heartlessness created the death machine Caesar commanded now.

  And that was precisely why the Empire had to win here and now. Quickly. Brutally. At all costs.

  "We must break their spine before they figure out how to fight for real," he whispered, clenching his fists in white gloves until the leather creaked. "Give them no room to breathe. No chance to rebuild. Strangle their anger in the cradle. We must take this world by the throat now, or we will bog down in a war of attrition that cannot be won."

  Caesar saw the path to world domination as clear and straight, paved with Mirishial corpses.

  However... in this perfect equation, there existed one more "X"—the most terrifying one. A nuance that chilled the blood of even the "Iron Admiral." A nuance possessing technologies capable of turning theAtlastarinto a pile of scrap metal without even entering visual range.

  Caesar looked east, where beyond the horizon, silent and menacing, lay an invisible force.

  "...Russia," the Commander-in-Chief whispered soundlessly, with just his lips.

  word rolled on his tongue with the taste of ash and cold steel.

  Alien among aliens, just as "other" as his own Empire. Caesar still didn't know how to relate to it. This feeling mixed the envy of a professional, the wariness of a predator encountering a larger beast in the forest, and... an irrational, almost childlike hope that they were not enemies. However, His Imperial MajestyGra-Luxhimself had recognized them. He introduced the concept of the "Russian Factor" into the narrowest, most privileged circle of high command. And, as Caesar understood now, not in vain.

  Memories surged like a wave, drowning out the roar of battle.

  A month ago. Emergency summons to Ragna.

  There, in the small reception hall of the Palace, before a handful of top officers and ministers, a Russian "consultant" turned on a strange black box they called a "television" or "monitor." The picture on the flat screen was sharper than reality. What they saw didn't just surprise—it turned their entire understanding of warfare inside out.

  Chronicle. Dispassionate, brutal annals of war.

  First—grainy footage where men in greatcoats went into bayonet charges, resembling the ancestors of the Gra-Valkans from the times of the Unification Wars. Crossbows and swords gave way to the first tanks and airplanes—ugly but deadly. This was understandable. This was close.

  But then... then the film turned to color, and war became technological.

  Caesar watched as fiery spears tore off rails, rushing into the sky to turn an invisible enemy plane into a cloud of debris seconds -to-air missile systems.A weapon reaching the enemy with a long, inevitable hand where cannons were powerless.

  He sawMultiple Launch Rocket Systems—machines that unleashed as much explosive in a minute as an artillery regiment in an hour, scorching hectares of land ("Grad," "Smerch"). He saw artillery firing tens of kilometers with sniper precision.

  This was a Power that had gone through hell.

  Unlike the pampered Mirishials, for whom war was a mage tournament, and unlike the Gra-Valkans, for whom war became a triumphal march of victors, these Russians... theysurvived. Their history was written in blood. Hardened steel forged under the hammer blows of history.

  The Russian special representative, commenting on the footage, did not boast. That scared the most. He spoke calmly, even with some bitterness, about defeats, about encirclements, about "cauldrons" and terrible losses. He spoke about the price of victory. Russia waged wars constantly, on the brink of annihilation. They had no respite and no era of hedonism like the one decomposing Mirishial. They were always at war.

  And at the end, when the generals were already sitting pale and quiet, they were shownIT. The reason the Emperor ordered not to look askance at the Russians.

  Test footage. Desert. A flash eclipsing the sun. And a gigantic mushroom of fire and ash growing into the stratosphere.

  Naturally, the diplomat spoke evasively: "deterrent," "guarantee of sovereignty." He was being disingenuous. But there were no fools or suicide candidates in that room to catch him on his word. The silence was deathly. Everyone understood everything perfectly without unnecessary words.

  Energy splitting matter.

  At that moment, looking at the screen, Caesar realized:Russia was far more powerful than the Holy Mirishial Empire and the Gra-Valkas Empire put ambitions, their fleets, their magic—all this was fussing in a sandbox compared to a force capable of cracking a continent.

  Weapon of Mass Destruction.

  The only trump card that allowed the planet to exhale without sliding into an immediate war between the GVE and the RF.

  The Commander-in-Chief of the National Army hadn't slept for three days now. After the viewing, he wandered the corridors of the Headquarters like a restless ghost, drinking without getting drunk, muttering something about Intelligence Chief Hamidall, who apparently knew about this earlier and thus aged ten years in a week.

  AndMopaul, the Minister of Foreign Affairs... he should have had a stroke right there in the hall. He turned blue, clutched his heart, but endured. Endured because fear for his own skin proved stronger than shock.

  Just one strike of a missile with a "special warhead."One strike! And of all his valiant landing force, of the Marine Corps, of the port where they were disembarking... nothing would remain. Not even memories. Only ash.

  Caesar swallowed convulsively. And this world... with all its intrigues, wars, dragons, and empires... it remains as it is, and they are still alive, for only one reason. By the great prudence, cold pragmatism, and perhaps the mercy of that very government in Moscow that wields this all-consuming fire.

  From these memories, flooding back in the midst of battle, the invincible Admiral Caesar's mouth went so dry his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his back under the dress tunic broke out in a sticky, icy sweat. He commanded the strongest army in this world. But he knew it was merely an illusion. An illusion permitted by gods from another world.

  "Admiral, sir, take this. You need to cool down," his permanent aide, Captain Adre, standing at Caesar's left hand, spoke quietly.

  He held a heavy, faceted crystal goblet misted with cold, inscribed with complex, ornate script—a trophy from the palace of the Leifor Crown Prince. It was filled with ice water. Adre, whose sense for the commander's mood was almost animalistic, understood: right now, the Admiral needed to wash away the taste of destruction ash that stood like a phantom in his throat after the heavy memories.

  The Commander-in-Chief accepted the goblet, his fingers, sheathed in white leather gloves, squeezed too hard for a moment, but the glass held. He drained the vessel in one greedy, long gulp, feeling the icy liquid bringing his thoughts to order and extinguishing the internal heat.

  "Thank you, Adre," he exhaled, returning the empty glass to the silver tray with a dull thud. A steely glint reappeared in his eyes. "Just in time."

  "No thanks needed, sir. I serve the Empire," the officer replied respectfully, with a short bow.

  The idyll was shattered by a sharp voice cracking into a falsetto from the loudspeaker connected to the radio intelligence and air control post. The crackle of interference mixed with the heavy breathing of the scout pilot on the other end of the ether.

  "Atlastar, this is 'Falcon-3'! Emergency message!" the pilot screamed, and primal horror that couldn't be faked was heard in his voice. "Visual contact! Quadrant seven-two! They... they are enormous! Confirming arrival of 'Celestial Ships'! Two units! Altitude five hundred, speed three hundred!"

  Deathly silence hung on the bridge. The officers exchanged glances.

  Caesar slowly closed his eyes, inhaling deeply the stale air of the wheelhouse, saturated with tobacco and ozone.

  "Shit..." he whispered angrily through his teeth, and the word sounded like a gunshot. "I knew it. Those fanatics wouldn't forgive themselves such disgrace without a final, suicidal gesture... They decided to show their trump card."

  The Admiral sharply lifted his cap, dabbed his sweating forehead with a silk handkerchief, and replaced the headgear, pulling the visor low over his eyes. The mask of doubt was cast off. Now he was a war machine again.

  "All ships in formation—redistribute fire sectors! Main caliber—prepare for flak fire against high-altitude targets!" his roar made the bridge staff flinch. "To the Carrier Group Commander: 'Code Red'! My personal order to all strike air groups: abort attack on the fleet! Regroup! Echelon by altitude! All fighters—attack the Objects! Tie them up in combat! Draw fire onto yourselves! Bombers—work on their engines or whatever replaces them! EXECUTE!"

  "Executing, Commander-in-Chief! Code 'Titan Killer' activated!" the communications officer responded, his fingers already drumming a beat on the telegraph key.

  Behind the armored glass of the wheelhouse, far on the flanks of the giant formation, feverish activity began on the flat decks of the aircraft carriers. Signalmen waved flags, technicians rolled away to the sides. Heavy piston engines roared with new strength, and dozens of Antares fighters began shooting into the gray sky like candles, leaving trails of smoke, re-targeted onto the new, terrible prey.

  Caesar followed them with a gaze full of grim determination and turned to his aide. Now came the time to do what stung his imperial pride but was necessary for survival.

  "Connect me with the Russian... With the air defense crew commander," he ordered, looking Adre straight in the eyes, and the cold resolve of a gambler going all-in rang in his voice. "With that... Captain-Lieutenant Vishnevsky."

  "Yes, Admiral," Adre answered without delay, with regulation crispness.

  He stepped to the massive communications rack secured to the armored bulkhead of the bridge. It was heavy equipment of the industrial era: black Bakelite casing, trembling needles of analog indicators, and a thick coiled cord. Adre twisted the stiff frequency tuning verniers with a habitual movement, tuning to the pre-agreed wave, and brought the heavy ebonite handset to his lips.

  "'Kremlin-1', this is 'Lead'. Urgent. Call the group's senior officer, Captain-Lieutenant Vishnevsky."

  The station speaker hissed briefly with static electricity, and literally a few seconds later, breaking through atmospheric interference with surprising clarity (Russian equipment filtered noise on their end), the calm, slightly husky voice of a Russian naval officer sounded. This voice contrasted with the hysteria and chaos of the Gra-Valkas ether like polar ice contrasts with volcanic fire.

  "Vishnevsky online. Read you five by five."

  Adre silently extended the handset to the commander. Caesar snatched the heavy device from his hands, gripping it as if he wanted to crush the plastic.

  "This is the Admiral. Listen carefully, Lieutenant. Our scouts were not mistaken. Presence of the Object confirmed. Two enemy 'Flying Fortresses' are on an intercept course. Our aircraft are engaging to tie them up, but I need guarantees."

  He paused, casting a quick glance at Adre.

  "Proceed with preparing your weapon. If these flying saucers break through the aviation screen... shoot them down to hell."

  "Copy, 'Lead'," the Russian officer's voice in the handset of the old apparatus remained professionally indifferent, as if speaking not of a battle with an unknown weapon but of a routine shoot at training targets on a range. "The complex has begun transition to combat mode. Tracking radars active, illumination on. Targets in sight. Waiting in the kill zone."