From a height of a hundred yards, Muller instantly assessed the situation. Below, in the clearing, a Twelve-Horned Beast had nearly caught its prey—a girl in a simple traveling dress.

  "Damn it. We'll make it, Taarela, but it's gonna be close."

  He gave the mental command. The wyvern let out a short, guttural roar that, like a clap of thunder, shook the treetops. The monster on the ground, hearing the challenge of a larger predator, froze instinctively, raising its hideous head. That one second was enough. Muller sent the wyvern into a steep, almost vertical dive.

  "Now, now, picking on the little ones isn't very nice," he drawled with grim irony. "So, girl, you ready to show him what I feed you for? Fireball. Concentrated."

  Pulling out of the dive into a treetop-level pass, the wyvern sharply extended its neck. The next moment, not a stream of flame, but a perfectly formed, pulsating ball of fire erupted from its maw. It struck the monster squarely in the head. But the expected effect didn't follow. The armor of horns and bone plates on the beast's skull held. There was a dull thud, and the monster was thrown back; it roared in pain and fury, but it was alive. Its eyes, previously burning with malice, were now bloodshot with rage.

  "Son of a bitch… tough bastard," Muller hissed, banking into a sharp turn. "Plan B. Go for the eyes!"

  Taarela came around for another pass, but this time, the beast was ready. It charged forward with a roar, trying to gore them with its horns. Muller, using all his skill, guided the wyvern in a deadly dance, evading the lunges and waiting for his moment. Finally, the monster, enraged, reared up on its hind legs, exposing its unprotected eyes.

  "NOW!"

  A second fireball, smaller and faster, hit its mark precisely. A gruesome, gurgling shriek echoed. Blinded and driven mad with pain, the beast began to thrash about the clearing, crushing everything in its path until, finally, it slammed into a rock face and fell silent.

  "That's more like it," Muller muttered with a note of weary satisfaction, landing the wyvern.

  He jumped to the ground, took off his worn flight helmet, and walked over to the girl. She stood trembling, her eyes, filled with tears, terror, and something else, almost manic, fixed on him.

  "Are you alright? Are you hurt?" he asked tiredly, holding out a hand to her.

  The girl hesitated, then slowly, almost with religious reverence, touched his calloused palm.

  "Th… thank you…" she whispered, her cheeks flushing with a strange, feverish heat.

  At that moment, Spetsnaz operators, breaking branches, burst out of the forest. They saw the vanquished, still-smoking monster, Muller holding the girl's hand, and lowered their rifles.

  "Situation?" the group commander barked.

  "All clear. Threat neutralized. Civilian is alive," Muller reported, feeling himself being pulled back into the familiar routine of war.

  He gently but firmly pulled her to her feet. The girl still couldn't take her eyes off him, her gaze a strange mix of horror, shock, and an almost religious awe. Her cheeks burned with an unnatural blush, and her eyes, previously wide with fear, were now unfocused, as if she were looking not at him, but through him, at a demigod descended from the heavens. Muller paid it no mind.

  Years of experience had taught him that the reactions of those saved from mortal danger could vary wildly. The main thing was that she was alive and unharmed.

  The Spetsnaz operators emerged from the forest, breaking dry branches underfoot. They moved heavily but quickly, their breathing ragged after the forced march, but their rifles were held at the ready, professionally covering their sectors.

  "Situation?" the group commander, Captain Zakharov, asked curtly.

  "Under control. Target eliminated. No threat," Muller nodded towards the still-smoking carcass of the monster.

  One of the operators, a young guy with the call sign "Grom" (Thunder), whistled.

  "Damn, what a beast… Six legs, twelve horns… What the hell is this thing?"

  "It's what in your world they call a 'monster' and draw in children's books, kid," Muller thought with grim irony. "But in my world, this is just another Monday."

  He said nothing. His gaze was already instinctively scanning the sky and the edge of the forest. The fresh smell of blood and scorch could attract other predators. This forest was wild, and in it, someone hungry was always waiting for their chance. He had long ago learned the main lesson of survival: the most dangerous creature isn't the one you've just killed, but the one you haven't noticed yet.

  From the perspective of Enesi Wysk.

  I was ready to die. But when, in my desperation, I prayed to the gods, they answered. They sent me HIM.

  And had it been a simple knight in shining armor, my girlish heart would have already been won. But the one who appeared before me… he came on a dragon. A real one, like in the ancient legends! With wings the color of the night sky, scales as hard as the best imperial steel, and a roar that made the very earth tremble.

  He is the Dragon Knight from the Prophecy!

  He didn't just fight the monster that was about to tear me apart. He played with it. He danced with it in the sky, and then, with a single blow, turned it to ash. A roar, a flame—and the beast was gone.

  He jumped from the sky to the earth. He walked towards me. He took off his strange, enclosed helmet… and when I saw his face, I knew I was lost. Oh, gods… he is so handsome. Not with the cloying beauty of the courtly youths, but with the rugged, masculine beauty of a true warrior. His eyes—tired, but full of a calm, unbreakable strength.

  The hand he offered me was broad, strong, and calloused—the hand of a man accustomed to weapons, not to balls. I noticed the specific cut of his jacket and the strange insignia—a winged serpent—on his shoulder. Perhaps it was the crest of "Louria" he spoke of earlier? The name meant nothing to me. We in Calamic know nothing of the lands beyond the Storm Ring—no news of their wars, their sins, or their kings ever reaches our shores. To me, he was a blank slate, a hero written into existence by the gods themselves. And when I touched his hand, I knew—this was fate. History did not matter. Only this moment did.

  While I, stunned, was trying to find my words, others emerged from the forest as if from the very earth.

  Men in rough, dirty, mottled clothes. Laden from head to toe with straps and strange metal objects. Their faces were hidden by black masks, and in their hands, they held unfamiliar metal staves. They moved silently, communicating with short, guttural gestures. Savages, I thought at first. As wild as the northern hunters from forgotten lands.

  "Situation?" one of them asked my knight.

  Ah, of course! I understood! This… this is his retinue. His loyal warriors. Probably from some wild tribe he has taken under his protection. They may look rough, but he, like a true lord, cares for them. What nobility!

  And then, out of breath, another man ran out from behind the trees. In a strange, tight blue suit, holding some kind of briefcase. He said something quickly and nervously, but I didn't listen. Some servant, a squire. It didn't matter.

  The main thing is that my knight is here. My future husband. I must thank him. As befits the daughter of Duke Wysk.

  Enesi stepped forward. The fear was gone, replaced by aristocratic composure. She looked up at Muller, and in her eyes shone such a mixture of gratitude, reverence, and almost religious adoration that it made him uncomfortable.

  "Lord Dragon Knight… Thank you for saving me," her voice trembled, not from fear, but from the overwhelming emotions.

  "It was nothing," Muller tossed out curtly. "Here we go again," he thought wearily. "Now come the tears and promises of eternal gratitude. God, I'm so tired of this."

  But Enesi turned to the others. Her gaze slid contemptuously over the Spetsnaz operators, then settled condescendingly on Orlov.

  "And you, loyal companions of my savior… My name is Enesi, daughter of Duke Wysk. As a token of my gratitude, I invite all of you to our estate for a feast. If you have no objection, my lord knight, your… men… may join," she pronounced with regal dignity, making it clear that she was bestowing a great honor upon these savages.

  "C-Companions?! MEN?!" Orlov choked on the air. His face, which until then had expressed only professional interest, contorted with astonishment. He wanted to intervene immediately, but Enesi continued:

  "Please, follow me. The gates of the capital are just over that hill."

  Orlov froze, his intelligence officer's brain analyzing the situation in a fraction of a second. "She thinks he's the leader, and we're his servants. Absurd. But… she's a duke's daughter. She's leading us straight to the capital, to the estate of one of the rulers. This isn't just luck. This is the jackpot." He made a decision.

  Orlov exhaled. A mixture of desperation and… wild relief washed over him. On the one hand, he, a colonel in the SVR, had been demoted to the status of "servant." On the other—contact had been made. They had just saved the daughter of one of the kingdom's three rulers. This wasn't just luck. This was the jackpot. "Alright," he decided. "For now, let her think whatever she wants. The important thing is, we're in."

  He gave the operators a subtle, practiced hand signal: "do not interfere, play along, engage the asset softly." The mission was entering its most surreal phase.

  Enesi turned back to Muller, her eyes shining.

  "My lord knight, may I know your name?"

  "Muller," he replied, his voice tired, almost resigned.

  "Lord Muller…" she repeated reverently. And then, almost in a whisper, more to her dreams than to him, she added: "A perfect name for my intended…"

  An awkward, almost deafening, pause hung in the air. Orlov stood with a stone-faced expression. The Spetsnaz operators, standing a little further away, flinched almost imperceptibly; one could hear one of them let out a stifled snort, struggling to hold back laughter.

  "Uh, milady, I'm very glad you think so… highly of me, but I have to tell you, I have a wi—"

  "Ahem!" Orlov, with an unnaturally wide, almost manic smile, strode sharply to Muller and gripped his elbow painfully, hard enough to make it crack. "Excuse me, Lord Muller, you have some dirt here!" he said loudly, pretending to brush off his shoulder. Then, turning his back to Enesi, he hissed directly into his ear:

  "Are you out of your mind?! Do you understand what kind of opportunity she's giving us?! SHUT UP!"

  "But I have a wife! A daughter! I can't…" Muller rasped.

  "Shut up! Do you realize they know nothing about the outside world? To them, Louria is a fairy tale, and you are a Messiah!" Orlov hissed, his smile for Enesi remaining wide, while his grip on Muller's elbow was like a steel trap. "If you tell her you're a married commoner from a defeated nation, we lose our divine status. We need the Duke's favor to secure the base! Do not ruin a state-level operation with your sudden honesty! Just play the damn role until we have the contract signed, understood?!"

  "But if I don't—"

  "If you don't what? You want an operation of state importance to fail because of your 'family values'?! For Russia to lose a key point of influence in this region?! For your native Louria, which now depends entirely on our contracts and humanitarian aid, to be left without support?! Is that what you want?! SHUT UP!"

  Muller sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. He was trapped. He had fled one war, lost it, hired himself out to the victors to provide a peaceful life for his family, and now, here he was, thrown into another war without his consent. A secret, deceitful, and possibly even dirtier one.

  "…As you say, Mr. Ambassador," he replied, his voice hollow, almost inaudible.

  Enesi, who had not heard their furious whispering, beamed.

  "Oh, I'm so glad you feel the same way about me!"

  Muller silently looked at her ecstatic, happy face, and in his eyes was the infinite sorrow of a man forced to fight once again. Only this time, not with weapons, but with his conscience. The group set off towards the capital. And so, through a misunderstanding, flattery, and a forced lie, the first contact between Russia and one of the ruling houses of Calamic began.

  50 miles east of Mount Luud, deep within an ancient, forbidden forest.

  "Lord Manley," the mage spoke, his voice filled with pride and sacred awe, "the first 'Demon Flame Tank' is ready for field trials."

  "Excellent," a cold, predatory smile touched the Duke's lips. "And what of the analysis of the ruins themselves?"

  "It proceeds slowly, my lord. The technologies of the Ancient Empire… they are beyond our comprehension. Their artifacts are built not on magic, but on altering the very fabric of reality. But even the scraps we've been able to decipher were enough to recreate this superweapon. And to breed several species of controllable magical creatures."

  "That will be sufficient," the Duke said, his eyes glinting with anticipation. The evil that had slumbered in these ruins for thousands of years was finding a new master. And this master craved power.

  Manley narrowed his eyes. "And what is it capable of?"

  "It can withstand a direct hit from a siege ballista and any known battle spell. Its armor is multi-layered, made of steel alloyed with magical obsidian, and covered in runes that do not dispel, but absorb the energy of enemy attacks, making it only stronger. No one in this world will be able to stop it," the mage answered, a fanatical gleam in his eyes.

  "So you've managed to harness the power of the ancient gods," Manley smirked coldly. "Show me this machine."

  "We have prepared a demonstration for you, my lord. In the battle arena. It will fight against… Raga."

  Manley raised a surprised eyebrow.

  "Raga? The legendary Magic Swordsman? You managed to capture that demigod?" Manley's voice held genuine surprise mixed with admiration.

  "We took his family hostage. He was forced to comply," the mage replied with a cold smirk.

  "Cruel… but effective," Manley Hanman nodded, a shadow of approval on his lips. He silently draped a heavy fur cloak, trimmed with the fur of a white mountain wolf, over his shoulders and followed the mage.

  They walked through the narrow, crooked streets of a village built directly on the bones of an ancient, forgotten world. The air here was heavy, smelling of damp stone, ozone from magical experiments, and a hidden, almost palpable threat. The monotonous chanting of spells, drifting from the crude, windowless houses, mingled with the distant growls of creatures locked in cages. The Duke walked with a confident, commanding gait, his lips twisted in a predatory smirk. He was savoring the anticipation. He could feel the power of the ancient ruins, which they had managed to subdue, now becoming his own. A power that would crush his rivals, overthrow the king, and make him, Manley Hanman, the sole and absolute ruler of Calamic. And perhaps, the entire world. He was heading to a spectacle that was to be the bloody prologue to his own ascent to the throne.

  The arena was a hasty and ugly scar on the body of the ancient forest. A wide, trampled circle of bare earth, surrounded by a stockade of crudely hewn logs, looked more like a cattle pen than a place for noble duels. But it was here that Manley Hanman's mages conducted their monstrous experiments. Today, the arena was open again, and this time, for a spectacle that, as the Duke believed, would be the prologue to his rise to the throne.

  On a specially erected wooden platform, in a massive armchair upholstered in crimson velvet, Manley Hanman leaned back comfortably. With a silver goblet full of wine in his hand, he looked like a Roman emperor ready to enjoy gladiatorial combat. It didn't matter to him who won. Only one thing mattered—the demonstration of absolute, unbreakable power.

  "I can't wait to see the legendary magic swordsman Raga in action," Manley said with restraint, but with a predatory gleam in his eyes, taking a sip from his silver goblet.

  Raga was rightly considered the strongest warrior in all of Calamic. His power was not innate, but acquired. The legendary sword Vilun and the armor Rin, found by his ancestor in these ruins, had transformed his lineage from simple mercenaries into living demigods. It was said that he could single-handedly break a formation of two hundred elite knights, and this legend was not far from the truth.

  "First, he will face a beast, my lord. We must personally assess the peak of his power, so that we can then accurately measure the superiority of our 'Magitank'," explained the mage standing at the foot of the platform.

  To the rhythmic, unsettling beat of drums, a man in chains was led into the center of the arena. His hands were bound behind his back, and a metal collar with a dimly glowing rune of subjugation was tightly fastened around his neck. But even in chains, he did not look broken. He walked with his head held high, and his gaze held the fury of a volcano. When the chains were removed, a heavy, iron-bound chest was placed before him.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "Open it," the mage tossed out.

  Raga slowly raised his head. His gaze, heavy and filled with restrained hatred, fixed on the mage.

  "Are you sure? As soon as I have my gear, I will kill every last one of you, and not even ash will remain of this cursed camp."

  "If you try, your wife and son will die a long and agonizing death," the mage replied indifferently. "But if you win two battles, you and your family will be free. Plus enough gold for you to disappear forever."

  "When I am armed, no one can stop me," Raga stated, and it was not a threat, but an immutable fact. He knew: two fights. Two fights, and his family would be free. And then would come the time for justice. His own, bloody justice.

  He knelt before the chest. There was no lock. He placed his palm on the lid, and the ancient symbol engraved on it flared with a steady blue light, recognizing its master. With a dull click, the chest opened. Inside, on a bed of black silk, they rested. The sword Vilun—a long, hand-and-a-half blade of a strange, dark-gray metal that seemed to swallow the light. And the armor Rin. It was not made of separate plates but appeared to be a single, seamless exoskeleton of the same material, smooth and almost organic.

  Raga began to don the armor. It was a ritual. Each piece clicked into place, perfectly molding to his muscular body. When he put on the helmet, the humiliated captive vanished. Before them once again stood Raga—a living legend, a silent machine of death.

  And then the loud, magically amplified voice of the herald boomed across the stands:

  "Good day, gentlemen! Today you will witness a battle featuring the one and only Raga! His first opponent will be…"

  The drums beat a fast, anxious roll.

  "…the Twelve-Horned Beast! Its hide is as tough as steel, and its fury is such that it takes an entire squadron of knights to stop it! BEGIN!"

  With a crash, the opposite gates flew open. From the dark passage, a monster emerged, roaring. It wanted to kill.

  Raga raised his sword. And in that same instant, the blade of Vilun flared with a steady, cold blue light, and ancient runes, like living snakes, raced across its surface.

  "Ho-ho…" Manley Hanman murmured with predatory interest.

  RO-O-OARRR!

  The monster charged forward, its horns lowered like a battering ram. Raga didn't move. At the last, almost imperceptible moment, he took a slight step to the side, and the monster rushed past.

  "Ha!"

  One short, almost lazy swing. The clang of steel was barely audible. The beast's body, carried by inertia for a few more feet, slammed into the wall with a dull crunch. And its head, severed from its torso, rolled to the side.

  "One strike?!" someone in the stands breathed. The arena froze in awestruck horror.

  Manley Hanman raised a surprised eyebrow.

  "Impressive. But will your tank withstand such a blow?"

  "There is no cause for concern," the mage replied coldly. "Its power… you will see it all for yourself now."

  "Proceed to the second battle," the Duke commanded.

  From another passage, it rolled onto the arena. If a modern person from Earth had seen it, they would have been reminded of the clumsy French World War I tank, the St-Chamond M16, only instead of tracks, it had six massive iron wheels. It moved slowly, with a clanking and screeching, and emitted no growl or roar—only a quiet, monotonous hiss. It had no eyes, no mouth. Its chassis, like the carapace of a giant beetle, was covered in crude welds from which steam rose, and it was enveloped in a Wyskous, almost black flame.

  Raga narrowed his eyes. "A strange beast…"

  "FIGHT!"

  As soon as the command was given, the "Tank" flared. Raga once again infused Vilun with his mana.

  "I don't know what kind of creature you are, but there is no armor this sword cannot pierce!"

  He charged forward and delivered a devastating blow.

  DZYYYYNNNNN!

  A sharp, painful, screeching sound. The legendary blade of Vilun was not just stopped—a sizeable chunk broke off, and Raga himself was thrown back by a shockwave that made his teeth rattle. Not even a scratch was left on the tank's armor.

  "Son of a bitch…" Raga snarled, backing away in horror.

  At the tip of his broken sword, a pulsating sphere of pure energy began to form. a Manastrike. His final argument.

  "He's preparing an explosive blade," the mage on the platform murmured with scientific curiosity. "Let's see if the armor can withstand a direct hit of concentrated mana."

  "GRA-A-A-AH!"

  Raga poured all his fury into this cry. He charged forward, and the blue flame on the tip of his sword flared like a supernova.

  BO-O-OM!

  A deafening explosion shook the arena. But when the cloud of dust slowly settled, revealing the scene, a gasp of horror swept through the stands.

  "I-it can't be…"

  The Magitank stood in the same spot. Intact. Without a single scratch. Moreover—the runes on its armor, which had been dark before, now faintly glowed with a crimson light, having absorbed the fury of the Manastrike and converted it into its own energy.

  Raga breathed heavily, leaning on the shard of his sword. "It… it didn't even flinch. It devoured my attack like a starving beast…"

  "Sir Manley," the mage on the platform said calmly, with the pride of a creator, "this machine doesn't just drive."

  He gave a slight nod. And in that same instant, the tank emitted a deep, vibrating roar. From an embrasure on its front, a spinning, white-hot ball of black flame shot out.

  Raga managed to leap aside at the last second. The projectile struck the arena wall and didn't just explode—it burned a hole through it, leaving behind melted, smoking stone that hissed like red-hot iron in water.

  "A fire projectile… of such density… it's melting stone!" someone from the audience whispered in horror.

  And the tank began to fire. Every five seconds—a deep, guttural roar, a flash, and another ball of black flame flew at Raga. He dodged, he rolled, using all his superhuman experience and speed. But this was not a duel. This was an execution. One projectile passed so close it singed his hair; another struck the legendary armor of Rin, leaving a deep, molten dent and showering him with sparks.

  And then he understood. They weren't even trying to kill him. They were testing their weapon. And he, Raga, the greatest swordsman in the kingdom, was nothing more than… a living target. This realization was more terrifying than any wound. It humiliated him. It broke his spirit.

  The Magitank did not stop. When Raga, exhausted and wounded, stumbled on the uneven ground, the next fireball struck him squarely in the chest. The legendary armor of Rin, capable of withstanding the flame of an ancient dragon, flared for a moment with all its protective runes, and then, with a pathetic crack, shattered. The black flame, bursting through the breach, engulfed the swordsman's body.

  Raga collapsed to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, and his final, agonized scream was drowned out by the hiss of melting metal.

  A dead, deafening silence fell over the arena. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, afraid to break it. Everyone stared at the charred, smoking body that just a minute ago had been a living legend.

  Raga. A legend. The greatest warrior of their world. Annihilated.

  "…It killed Raga… as if he were nothing," one of the mages whispered, and his voice held not elation, but superstitious terror.

  And suddenly, that deathly silence was shattered by laughter.

  "Heh… HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!" Manley Hanman leaped to his feet, his eyes burning with a mad, fanatical fire. "Magnificent! Divine!"

  "I am glad you are pleased, my lord," the mage replied with a low bow. "With such power, there is nothing in this world that can stop us. We can build twenty more of these."

  "Twenty?!" Manley clenched his fists. "That is more than enough. As soon as they are ready—we march!" He strode to the edge of the balcony, looking down at Raga's burned body. "First, Vaizer will fall, Duke Ioan's city. And then—the entire kingdom! This island will be mine!"

  "Lord Manley," the mage's quiet voice came, "and what shall we do with Raga's family?"

  Manley thought for a moment, and then, with the indifference one might use to empty an ashtray, he tossed out:

  "Ah, right… Feed them to the beasts. They are of no further use to us."

  "As you command."

  And so, one of the three great dukes, Manley Hanman, finally set foot on the path of tyranny. A path paved with fire, steel, and the blood of innocents, and blessed by the shadows of an ancient, long-forgotten, but reawakened Empire.

  The Wysk Estate, Arkhal, capital of Calamic.

  "What the hell just happened?"

  Duke Wysk, one of the three great lords of the kingdom, sat in his study, massaging his temples. He had just listened to the ecstatic, rambling account from his daughter, Enesi, and his experienced politician's mind was frantically trying to piece together a logical picture from the chaos.

  So. This morning, his daughter, once again ignoring a direct order, had slipped out of the capital. There, she supposedly stumbled upon a twelve-horned beast—a creature not seen in these parts for at least fifty years. And at that very moment, as if in a cheap play, a mysterious rider on a wyvern appears and saves her.

  "Too perfect to be true. Too convenient not to be suspicious," the Duke thought.

  And now, this "savior" and his "retinue"—a group of strangers in odd clothing—were sitting in his reception hall. Dirty, laden with unfamiliar weapons. Not knights. Mercenaries? Or something worse?

  But whoever they were, they had saved his daughter. And that meant he, the Duke, now owed them a debt of honor. And simultaneously, it presented a unique opportunity. He would go to them. He would listen. And he would try to understand who they were. And what they wanted. The game had begun.

  Still, two of them stood out. The wyvern rider himself, Muller—a man with a stern face and military bearing. And the one who spoke for them all—a man who introduced himself as "Ambassador Orlov." He spoke politely, but beneath that politeness, one could feel a steely confidence.

  According to them, they had left their "dragon" in the forest. The fact of the rescue, to his chagrin, was undeniable. The Duke sighed heavily. He would have to play this game. And he intended to win.

  "Thank you… for saving my daughter. I am in your debt. I believe we should continue this conversation over dinner," Duke Wysk rose, signaling that the audience was over. "Servant, escort our guests to the dining hall."

  Muller and his companions were politely but firmly directed towards the dining hall. When the massive oak doors closed behind them, the Duke closed his eyes for a moment.

  "Enesi… you have truly brought the strangest guests into my home in the entire history of our lineage…" he muttered to himself.

  He could already foresee this dinner. Every word, every gesture, every goblet of wine would be part of a complex game. He would have to express gratitude, show hospitality, and at the same time, try to extract the truth from them. Dinner was no longer a meal. It was becoming a battlefield. And Duke Wysk intended to emerge the victor.

  "…and that's how, Father, Lord Muller was simply magnificent! Strong, calm, a true hero from the legends!"

  "Yes, yes…" Duke Wysk grunted, nodding absently, his gaze fixed on the wine in his goblet. "A knight on a wyvern… Too perfect. Suspicious," he thought.

  "Father, are you even listening to me?!"

  "Yes, dear, I am. Anything else?"

  "Lord Muller and I would like to go for a short walk. I'll show him our garden…"

  "Go," he waved his hand dismissively.

  When the door closed behind them, the Duke's face instantly changed. The relaxed air vanished, replaced by the cold, perceptive mask of a politician. He turned to Orlov.

  "Gentlemen. I am truly grateful to you. How can I repay you? Gold? Lands?"

  "We need nothing, Your Excellency," Orlov replied calmly.

  "Ah, selfless heroes," the Duke drawled with a slight smirk. "But still. I am one of the three great lords of Calamic. If I do not reward my daughter's saviors, it will be poorly received. By the way, your attire… I've never seen anything like it. Where are you from?"

  It was time to drop the masks. Orlov slowly rose. His figure, previously relaxed, suddenly gained a steely rigidity.

  Duke Wysk raised a surprised eyebrow. "The Russian Federation? A diplomatic mission?" The mosaic of information instantly clicked into place in his mind. A flash of triumph flickered in his eyes, but he immediately extinguished it. "They aren't just mercenaries. These are official ambassadors of a new, unknown power. And by saving my daughter, they are now indebted to me. The game is becoming far more interesting."

  "I can arrange a meeting for you with our department of foreign relations," the Duke said slowly, weighing each word. "However, I must warn you: establishing official ties will not be easy. Not because we are inhospitable. But because we have never had contact with states from beyond the Great Sea. We will have to conduct our own, thorough investigation: to determine if the country you speak of truly exists, and if it poses a threat."

  He paused, and his gaze hardened.

  "Forgive my directness, but in our position, this is a matter of survival."

  "We understand completely, Your Excellency," Orlov nodded calmly, almost sympathetically.

  "You know…" the Duke continued, leaning back in his chair, "this is truly astonishing. Guests from across the sea… We believed our world was just this island. In ancient times, one expedition managed to lower boats from the cliffs. They traveled far, but ran into endless mountains and then more sea. There were conjectures that there were other lands beyond the horizon… but no one ever came to us from there. Until today."

  He fell silent, and in that silence hung the weight of a thousand years of isolation and a hidden question. "He's testing us," Orlov realized. "He wants to know what we know. He's feigning naivety to get us to show our cards. A game as old as time."

  Orlov, after a perfectly timed diplomatic pause, placed his ruggedized field tablet on the polished table. He pressed the power button. The screen came to life, and a smooth, flawless animation of the Russian coat of arms—a double-headed eagle against a tricolor background—appeared.

  "Your Excellency, allow me to introduce you to Russia."

  Duke Wysk leaned forward in disbelief. He stared at the moving, colored, perfectly clear image. It didn't flicker like a magic crystal. It was too… real. He cautiously, with his fingertips, touched the smooth, cold surface.

  "What kind of sorcerous mirror is this, that shows living pictures…?"

  And that was only the beginning. Orlov, with a single swipe of his finger, changed the image to a satellite map of the world. The Duke saw his island, his kingdom, his city—from a bird's-eye view, with a level of detail unattainable by any mage. And then the camera began to pull back, and his island turned into a tiny dot in the middle of a vast, endless ocean… on the other side of which a gigantic, unfamiliar continent was visible.

  The world as he knew it had just shattered under the weight of a new, incredible reality.

  From the private journal of Duke Wysk. The 142nd day since the Founding Festival.

  Today, my view of the world changed. No. The world I knew simply ceased to exist.

  How, in the name of all the gods, can this even be explained? Today, men entered my home who came… from beyond the world. They saved my daughter, which is a miracle in itself. But the main thing is what they showed me.

  On their "magic mirror," they demonstrated their country to me. "Russia." It is not a state. It is a civilization of another order.

  I saw their cities—towers of glass and steel reaching into the clouds, higher than the tallest mountain peaks. I saw their "trains"—steel serpents gliding silently over the land with incredible speed. I saw their army… Gods, I saw their army.

  From the short fragments I witnessed, our kingdom lags behind them not by centuries, but possibly by millennia. To them, we are like a savage tribe from the jungle is to us.

  They say they want to help us develop. If this is true… then it is a chance the gods send once in an eternity. A chance to leap across centuries.

  But… What if behind this chance lies a threat? A power capable of building such cities is also capable of destroying them with ease. Today, they are my daughter's saviors. But who will they be tomorrow, when they realize how weak and defenseless we are? I looked at their ambassador, a calm, confident, polite gentleman. And I saw in his eyes not friendliness, but a cold, sober calculation. He was assessing me, my house, my kingdom—not as an equal, but as a scientist studying a curious insect. I don't know which I fear more: their hostility or their friendship. Either could destroy us.

  Their politeness. That's what's most frightening. Their politeness is the politeness of a predator that sees no threat in you. If they shouted, threatened, rattled their monstrous weapons, I would understand them. But they are calm. And this calmness speaks of a power so absolute that to them, we are nothing more than exotic natives. Our entire history, all our legends of great knights and unbreakable walls… all of it will turn to dust in a matter of days if they decide to use force. Their might is not magic. It is a cold, soulless calculation, embodied in steel and fire. And that makes it even more terrifying.

  Tomorrow, I will submit a report to the Bureau of Foreign Affairs. I feel the intoxicating excitement of a discoverer standing on the threshold of a new world. And at the same time, the icy terror of a ruler who understands that his people could become merely the first victims of this new world. Where will Calamic be in ten years? Will we become their equal partners, having adopted their knowledge? Or will we be turned into a resource appendage, an exotic reservation where their descendants will come to marvel at "living knights"? Can we survive… or will we simply dissolve into their world, like a drop of paint in the ocean?

  I do not know. But I know one thing. There is no turning back. The clocks of Calamic's history were moved forward a thousand years today. And now, we will have to learn to live in this new, frightening time.

  The next morning, the Russian delegation, now treated at the estate with a mixture of fear and reverent curiosity, was formally invited to the Bureau of Foreign Relations. A procession of several luxurious but unbearably creaky carriages, escorted by Duke Wysk's personal guard in gleaming armor, moved slowly through the capital's streets.

  The presence of one of the three great lords worked wonders. Officials who would have made ambassadors from civilized kingdoms wait for hours bowed low and cleared the way. All formalities were completed with incredible speed.

  While Orlov and his team, with a polite mask of boredom on their faces, filled out countless protocols with a rough goose quill on coarse parchment, Duke Wysk departed for the palace. "The main thing is to present the information correctly," he thought. "Not as an invasion of outsiders, but as my personal diplomatic triumph. I have brought a new power to Calamic, and now the king will be indebted to me."

  Despite the rush, the Bureau, as expected, declined immediate negotiations.

  "The approval process may take several days. As soon as the high council makes a decision, you will be invited for an audience," the head of the Bureau informed them officially, without a hint of emotion.

  "Several days," Orlov smirked inwardly. "In Moscow, you could start and finish a small war in that time."

  A less experienced diplomat might have been outraged or panicked, calling for immediate extraction. But Orlov remained calm. He knew about the gathering storm in the West—about Manley's army and the burning of Vaizer.

  "Let them wait," he thought coldly. "If we offer military aid now, they will reject it out of pride or fear. But if we wait... If we let Manley scare them properly, let the King realize his army is useless... then they won't just accept our terms. They will beg for them."

  He nodded outwardly with polite understanding.

  At the Duke's personal request, the delegation returned to his estate. For the Spetsnaz operators and SVR analysts, this delay was not a hindrance, but an opportunity. Ambassador Orlov locked himself in his room, not to call for help, but to compile a psychological profile of a future client. The group assumed a waiting position. It was the calculated patience of a spider in its web—waiting for the prey to become desperate enough to ask to be saved.

  The City of Vaizer, Duchy of Ioan. Western Сalamic.

  "A thousand hells! They're too strong!"

  The "Phoenix Knights" squadron, the elite guard of the Duchy of Ioan, had ceased to exist. Of the eight hundred of the kingdom's finest warriors, who that very morning had stood in a perfect, gleaming formation under the sun, fewer than two hundred remained. Scattered across the burning streets, they were wounded, shell-shocked, and demoralized. Their legendary crimson armor was charred and caked with dried blood. Their warhorses had been torn to pieces. The city was on fire.

  Flames devoured houses, shops, and temples. The screams of civilians, the hysterical wails of women, the cries of children, and—above it all—the guttural, victorious roars of the monsters that now ruled the streets filled the air.

  The knights were powerless. For years, they had trained to fight wild beasts. But what they faced was not just a pack of monsters. It was an army. Disciplined, ruthless, and armed with weapons torn from nightmares.

  "Damn you all to hell…"

  The squadron commander, bleeding from a ragged wound in his side, struggled to his feet, leaning on his sword. Before him, stepping over the mutilated bodies of his men, stood one of the twelve-horned beasts. Its maw was red with fresh blood.

  The commander knew he was going to die. But he could not allow himself to die in fear.

  "HAAA!" he screamed and, pouring all his fury into the blow, he struck the monster's neck with his sword.

  CLANG!

  The blade scraped along its hide, not even leaving a scratch.

  "Hahaha! What a pathetic sight! Not even the legendary 'Phoenix Knights' could do anything! And I haven't even unleashed my main trump cards yet! How magnificent my army is!"

  That voice… The commander raised his head in horror and recognized the figure in black, rune-covered armor standing on the balcony of a nearby burning house. An icy dread seized his heart. This was no foreign invader. This was one of their own.

  "It's been a while, Commander," Manley Hanman said with an icy smirk.

  "S-Sir Manley?!" the commander forced out. "But… these are the lands of Duke Ioan! What are you doing here?!"

  "Ah, you still don't understand?" Manley spread his arms theatrically. "I came to conduct a little experiment. And this lovely army—these are my new toys." He patted the horned head of the twelve-horned beast standing beside him with paternal affection, which rumbled in response like a giant cat.

  "This… is only the first step, Commander," the Duke continued. "The first step towards a change of power in Сalamic. To the beginning of a new era, where there will be only one ruler. Me."

  "You… have betrayed the king…" the commander rasped, his voice choked. "Why?!"

  "Why?" Manley laughed. "Because I have seen the light! You think this pathetic island is the limit? No! In the ancient ruins, the truth was revealed to me! Out there, across the sea, is a vast world! Dozens of kingdoms! And I, with this power," he gestured to the army of monsters below, "will conquer them all! Сalamic is just the beginning!"

  "But we know nothing of that world! You will plunge us into a war with the unknown!"

  "I will plunge us into greatness!" Manley Hanman roared. "Enough hiding behind our rocks! It's time to make our presence known! And those like you—relics of the past, clinging to your oaths and honor—must be wiped from the face of the earth!"

  With those words, he turned to the mage standing in the shadows.

  "Continue."

  The mage nodded. Dozens of magical creatures, which until then had merely held the circle, charged the last knight with a guttural roar. His death scream was drowned out by the clash of claws and fangs.

  "You're a monster… so much blood… for your pathetic ambitions…" the commander rasped, choking on his own blood.

  "Ambitions? No. This is destiny," Manley replied with a cold smirk. "I am not a tyrant. I am a progressive." He turned back to the mage. "Our guest seems to be bored. See him out."

  The mage nodded. Dozens of magical creatures, which until then had merely held the circle, charged the last knight with a guttural roar. His death scream was drowned out by the clash of claws and fangs. The city of Vaizer had fallen.

  The news reached the capital by evening. At first, no one believed it. Vaizer? The impregnable fortress of the West? Impossible. But when the refugees, scared half to death, filthy, wounded, with eyes crazed with terror, began to arrive in Arkhal, telling of monsters that spewed unquenchable fire and of Duke Manley Hanman's black armor, there was no longer any doubt. King Brandea declared a state of emergency.

  From that day on, the name Manley Hanman ceased to be associated with one of the three pillars of the kingdom. It became a symbol of betrayal, madness, and a new, incomprehensible, and therefore even more terrifying threat, born in the dark depths of ancient, cursed ruins. The civil war had begun.