KREMLIN, MOSCOW
The scraping of chairs filled the room of the meeting chamber, as the 25 members of the Soviet Politburo filed in. The Defense Minister of the Soviet Union- a certain Sergey Kosov, took his seat with weariness. The silence in the room spoke volumes to the doubt stirring behind every man in this room. The absence of the General Secretary, who was currently "busy", didn't put their minds at ease, either. Recent events in Germany had shaken the very foundation of the world as he had known it, leaving everyone across the globe baffled, confused, and most importantly- scared. This applied especially so for the denizens of the German Democratic Republic, who had borne witness to a foreign army rampaging through their homes.
This was the very same German Democratic Republic that the USSR had promised to protect, and with thousands laying dead... people were searching for answers. Kosov shuddered at how every pair of eyes in the room happened to be looking at him.
"Comrade. You may begin your report."
Defense Minister Kosov took a deep breath, mentally going over the sequence of events, before commencing.
"On the 7th of August, 1985, at approximately 0900 hours. The GDR town of Suhl came under attack by unknown forces. The belief at the time was that NATO had begun an invasion- however, this option was immediately ruled out upon contact with the enemy."
He took a breath.
"Elements of the 39th Guards Motor-Rifle Division immediately responded to the attack, alongside elements of the 56th Guards Airborne Regiment, who were running exercises nearby. Our forces reported 53 casualties, of which 7 are fatalities. There were, however, a considerable amount of injured and dead among both the civilian population and the police force. We don't have a proper count yet, but the number easily reaches to over a thousand."
Another breath.
"The origin point of this attack seems to have been a large, white structure, located near Suhl's primary church. For lack of a better term, this structure seems to serve as a sort of passageway between the... enemy world and ours."
Kosov continued his report, droning on about the details of the engagement, the conduct of Soviet forces, and any other relevant details.
"That will be all, Comrade."
The Defense Minister bit his tongue.
"Considering the nature of the situation, I think we can all agree that the Soviet military performed... admirably. Not only was there a quick response, but we managed to easily beat back the invaders without much difficulty. Now, what we are far more interested in is the origins of this invasion, and what we are to do about it. Director Yakov, if you please...
The enigmatic KGB Director stood up
"In the aftermath of the attack, many of the enemy combatants were captured- some voluntarily surrendered, whereas some others took a bit more... persuasion."
"The invading army belongs to a nation called Sadera, which is based on the continent of Falmart. The continent is estimated to be roughly around the size of Asia- with Sadera controlling "most" of it. It is likely that Sadera is either close in size or outright bigger than the motherland itself.
"Sadera is a primitive society. Their military consists of men with swords and spears- a complete joke in the face of modern technology. What they do have, however, is "magic"- a force that some of their advanced warriors are capable of using. A few of our BMPs were disabled during the fighting in Suhl due to this. Another advantage the Saderans have is their mastery of certain species- you have likely already seen footage of the large flying creatures dubbed "Wyverns" already."
Kosov thought back to the reports of the VVS' pilots. The "Wyverns", as Yakov had put it, were nothing but fodder for the Soviet Air Force. This other force though, magic... he had seen firsthand the scorched and bent body of a BMP-1 within Suhl.
"Now the question is, what must be done? An attack on the Germans is an attack against the Motherland." There came the question that Kosov was dreading.
"If you're considering an invasion..."
"What else? We cannot let this attack stand-"
"It may not be up to us." The Minister of Foreign Affairs proclaimed. "The Germans are claiming that since the "Gate" is on their territory- they are the ones who decide what happens with it. It just so happens that they are demanding an invasion."
Silence hung in the room.
"Do they need to be reminded again of who's in charge here?"
"That is precisely the problem, you see. Their distrust in us has grown considerably- especially after we left the Afghans to the wolves...
Kosov felt a pang of rage, immediately speaking up to defend himself-"I'm telling you, withdrawing when we did was the best option we had. We could've stayed there for another 5 years, and we still wouldn't have been able to clear out the rebels!"
"Your assessment has been noted and has been verified, Minister." The KGB Director spoke. "But it does not change the reality. Actions have consequences, and while I do agree that we were right to withdraw, it ultimately has further eroded the fragile trust that our allies had in us."
The chamber settled into silence yet again. Kosov took this as his queue to press on.
"It matters little what the GDR demands- our hands may very well be forced either way. I must remind you all that NATO is also reeling from this attack- in fact, they were wounded far more than we were. Their civilian losses at Fulda eclipse our own. The West Germans are outraged- and NATO is aboslutely planning an invasion through the Gate as we speak. We cannot fall behind them. Furthermore, we have much to gain from exploring this new world. Though primitive, their mastery of certain concepts such as... Magic... could be of use."
The men nodded in agreement.
"We will closely monitor the actions of NATO to see what they do. I believe that our course of action should be based off of theirs's. If they seek to cross over into this... other world... then we must do the same."
Kosov spoke up. "In that case, I will begin preparations for a potential invasion through the Gate."
"...So be it".
As the Politburo moved onto other topics regarding the Gate, Kosov cradled his head in his hands. He had hoped that his headaches would've ended with Afghanistan. Clearly, he was wrong.
IMPERIAL PALACE, SADERA
The Emperor felt his fingers digging into his own skin as his fists clenched. His mind had long since drifted away from the stammered reports of the survivors and the blathering of his Senators. His mind was focused on only one thing- His armies lay battered and bruised, destroyed far beyond what any creatures of this world could do.
It would've been less costly to throw them into the nest of a flame dragon!
He forced himself once again to listen to the words of the young man.
"... confirmed dead. Fourth Legion- Legate Decimus and all Tribunes confirmed dead. Of the legionaries- over 6000 are unaccounted for..."
His fists clenched harder as another man spoke.
"It's not just the numbers... it's also the importance of the men we've lost. Count Formal hasn't been seen anywhere since he went through the gate- we can only assume the worst. Italica is currently run by a petulant child! Her older sisters are already warring over influence... If Italica falls into ruin..."
Molt cradles his head into his hands, sighing deeply. Molt was the custodian of the greatest state that Falmart had ever seen. But the Empire that he had led since his young days was now a sick old woman- The Great Rebellion of 7 years past had created ripples in the pond that were still felt by everyone today. Discontent, disloyalty, a weak economy...
And on top of all of that... now this...
His attempt at quickly securing riches and resources from another world had gone wrong. Horrifically wrong. What was meant to be a quick smash-and-grab of valuables had blossomed into an unmitigated military disaster. Molt wouldn't show it- but for the first time since the Great Rebellion, he was scared.
His mind drifted back into the chamber around him, as a General- one he recognized as Voridus, spoke up-
"In a way, it's a damned good thing that the enemy responded as quickly and harshly as they did. We called in the retreat before the majority of our forces even went through..."
"Goodness knows how many we could've lost if they took more time to show up..."
Molt cleared his throat, in a way that was meant to obviously gather attention. Every pair of eyes in the chamber directed themselves towards him.
"Voridus". The Emperor paused, letting his words settle in. The decorated General stood at attention, his eyes locked with Molt's.
"Including all the missing... how many have we lost?"
Voridus let out a sigh. "20,000... roughly. About 12,000 on the Alnus front, and 8,000 from Knappnai."
Molt felt a cold chill run down his back. "And those who are too wounded to be effective in combat?"
"...That would be another 10,000. Sir."
The silence hung in the air for far too long. Molt straightened in his seat, his fingers steepled before him. His voice was cold, measured—yet the weight of the catastrophe pressed into every word.
"Voridus, you are not a fool. You can see how this is not just a loss; it is a complete catastrophe! Legions shattered. Tribunes and legates, dead... And for what?"
Voridus's jaw tightened. He was not a man easily cowed, but even his formidable demeanor cracked under the Emperor's gaze.
"Your Majesty, the enemy is... unlike anything we have ever faced. Their weapons strike from distances beyond sight, and their projectiles tear through our shields, armor, and flesh as though they were paper. Our magic could do little to counter them—our mages were seemingly cut down before they could throw into the fray. I did not witness the slaughter myself, but I have previously trained and fought alongside many of those that returned through the Gate. They are not the type of men to cower and run from a battle... not unless they speak the truth about the nature of our foe."
"Not to mention... I've visited the hospitals. No empire of this world would've been able to do the damage that was inflicted on us."
Molt raised a hand, silencing Voridus. "Be that as it may, these armies are commanded by men, are they not? Men of flesh and blood, just like us. Men can be outsmarted. Men can be killed, as some of the corpses we've brought through the Gate have shown us. We will not cower, but neither will we strike blindly again. Our greatest threat, at this time, is the possibility of them invading us. We must prepare for defensive operations, deterring them from pursuing us."
Molt rose from his throne, his towering presence casting a shadow over the chamber. "The Empire has suffered a grievous wound, but we are not dead- far from it! We will adapt. We will learn. We will defend our land from those who wish to destroy it. And when the time is right, we will strike back. For now, this meeting is adjourned."
As the senators and generals began to file out, Molt sat back down, alone on his throne. For the second time in his reign, he felt the creeping edges of doubt gnawing at his confidence.
"Voridus?"
The General froze, turning around to face Molt. "Yes, your majesty?"
"You made a good choice back there, holding back reinforcements. I was told that Legate Tantalus wanted to charge in, to avenge those that we had lost."
"He did, sir. And he was far from the only one."
Molt sighed deeply. "You might need to use your judgement like that again, if war is brought to our lands once more..."
"That being said, you're free to go."
The General left with a solemn bow.
The pit in Molt's stomach didn't shrink. The Empire would survive this disaster. It had to.
But would it?
ALLSTEDT AIRBASE, EAST GERMANY
CAPTAIN VIKTOR KISELEV
"Viktor?"
Viktor Kiselev- now Captain Viktor Kiselev, had been ordered back to Allstedt after his participation in the fighting at Suhl- a battle that has come to increasingly become known as 7/8... The 7th of August, 1985. His actions and conduct above the skies of Suhl had resulted in both him and Vasilyev, his gunner, getting knocked up one rank. Vasilyev to Senior Lieutenant, and him to Captain. A week had passed since the incident, and Kiselev found himself having a walk around the base as the sun dipped below the horizon, when he turned around to catch the familiar voice that had called his name.
"...Dimitri?"
Sergeant Dimitri Andrushev of the VDV's 56th Guard's Air Assault Brigade let out a hearty laugh.
"It's good to see you my friend! I was wondering what you've been up to since Afghanistan!"
Kiselev chuckled, his lips curving into a faint smile as he stepped forward to clasp Dimitri's outstretched hand. "Dimitri, you old bastard. I didn't expect to see you here of all places! I thought you'd call it quits after we pulled out of Afghanistan... still not tired of getting shot at?
Andrushov laughed again. "And you, Viktor? Still flying death traps they call helicopters, eh? We're both gluttons for punishment, Viktor."
"Can't complain, can you? I never got you killed for as long as you rode with me." Kiselev retorted. "But tell me, what brings you to Allstedt? I'm guessing you were reassigned here after 7/8?"
Andrushov's grin faded slightly, his tone growing more serious. "The 56th was participating in the exercise. In fact, we were at Suhl when the bastards came through... We were gradually drawn back here in the days after the... incident."
Kiselev's expression darkened at the mention of the Gate. He looked to the fading sunlight cast long shadows across the base, the distant hum of jet engines and the clatter of maintenance crews filling the air.
"So... you fought them?"
Andrushov nodded. "That I did. You?"
Kiselev nodded back. "I saw the whole mess from above. Idiots, the lot of them... it's like they couldn't understand what they were up against."
Andrushov raised an eyebrow. "And what are we up against, Viktor? I mean, what the hell is on the other side of that thing?"
The only answer Andrushov would receive is a shrug. "How am I to know? I'm a pilot, not a KGB officer. Nevertheless, I'm sure we'll get to know soon enough... I doubt that our troubles with this "Gate" ended on 7/8".
"I hope it did, but... things hardly ever turn out the way we hope, eh?"
The two men stood in silence for a moment, before Andrushov turned his head around, staring at a young man for a few seconds. "See that fellow over there? Ivan Filipov, new guy in the squad."
"Ah, the replacement for..."
Kiselev left that sentence unfinished. After a short silence, Andrushov continued on.
"Yes, he is. Did well at Suhl, got himself a nice promotion to Efreitor." The Sergeant paused for a second, before starting again. "You know, I was thinking... that bastard is lucky, getting in after the withdrawal from Afghanistan. But..."
Kiselev chuckled. "It seems that neither you or me or him will get the privilege of a quiet life, Dimitri."
"Who knows... if more comes of this "Gate" business, they could send some other poor bastards to deal with it... Do you think they would actually..."
Kiselev cut him off. "Rumors are flying, as always, Sergeant... Some say we're here to stay and defend, others think we'll be sent through... Command hasn't given us much to go on. Typical, right?"
"Typical indeed." Kiselev sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "At least it's not Afghanistan. I can handle cold nights and uneasy sleep, but I'd prefer not to relive those days."
"Same here, my friend." Andrushov's eyes grew distant for a moment, lost in memories of dust, heat, and constant danger. Then he shook it off, focusing back on Kiselev.
"Atleast these bastards knew when to call it quits... the Mujahedeen? Not so much."
Kiselev's thoughts lingered on that. Yes, maybe they'll just surrender, promise reparations, and that'll be that... Of course, he didn't have any delusion that this was actually going to happen, as much as it would save everyone some trouble.
His gaze went to his watch, then back to Andrushov. "I've got somewhere I need to be in around 5 minutes. I'll see you later, then, Dimitri?"
"Of course... it was good to speak to you again."
And on that, the two men parted ways- with the horizon blotting out the last rays of the falling sun.
NEAR FRANKFURT, WEST GERMANY
SERGEANT FIRST CLASS ANDREW REDDOWS
"Kaplan, you gonna bet or keep staring at your cards like you're trying to read 'em in braille?" Wilson asked, leaning against the hull with his cap tilted back. He always looked calm, but tonight, there was a slight edge to his voice.
Kaplan smirked, shuffling his hand of cards. "Don't rush me, Wilson. Strategy takes time. You wouldn't get it, being the gun monkey and all."
Wilson's eyes narrowed, but before he could retort, Reddows interjected. "Kaplan, I swear, if you waste any more of our goddamned time, I'm shoving you out there to go speak with the Krauts."
The mention of the Germans brought a pause to the table. Kaplan, always quick with a comeback, glanced past Reddows to the distant ridge where the West German forces had been steadily building up over the past few days. Even from here, they could make out the silhouettes of Leopard 2 tanks and the bustling activity of supply trucks.
"They'd shoot me on sight with how much of a stick they have up their assholes these days." Kaplan said, nodding towards the ridge.
"Would do us all some good."
"Firstly, fuck you dude. Secondly, you can't deny that I'm right."
Reddows shrugged his shoulders. "That you are. I've counted... what? 10 Leopards within the past hour?"
"They're serious, I'll give them that. Whole damn camp's bigger every day." Wilson added.
Reddows nodded. "Can you blame them? It was their citizens who were slaughtered. We're an ocean away from the Gate, but this is their backyard."
The crew fell quiet for a moment, the weight of the words settling over them. The distant growl of engines and the occasional bark of a dog from the base perimeter filled the void.
"Well if they're that damned eager... maybe we'll get a vacation while the Krauts handle everything."
Wilson shot him a look. "Kaplan, if you're banking on someone else saving our asses, you're in the wrong job."
"Yeah, well, I'm just saying... it wouldn't hurt to let them go into wonderland first." Kaplan tried to grin, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Sure, I wouldn't mind letting them have all the fun." Wilson added.
"Fun," Reddows repeated under his breath, his voice barely audible. He picked up a card and studied it for a moment before laying it down. "God, I fucking wish."
KNAPPNAI MOUNTAIN RANGE, WESTERN SADERA
The chill of the mountain air bit into his skin as Lucius adjusted the strap of his shield across his back. The night was moonless, and the only light came from the faint glow of the lamp held up by his hand, paving a golden aura of light around him.
"Never likes this place." Lucius muttered, pushing through the dense bushes.
"Yeah, well, who does? it's not like we get a choice. The Legate wants someone up there, so here we are." Marcus replied.
As they neared the clearing at the top of the hill, Lucius slowed his pace, raising a hand to signal Marcus to do the same. The faint clink of their armor fell silent, replaced by the distant rustle of leaves in the wind.
"Almost there," Lucius whispered, his voice low. He pushed aside the last of the shrubs and stepped into the clearing.
The small camp by the Gate's edge was deserted.
The fire pit smoldered with dying embers, its warmth long since abandoned. A few scattered helmets and shields lay on the ground, but there was no sign of the sentries they were supposed to relieve.
Lucius furrowed his brow, unease prickling at his skin. "Where the hell is everyone?"
Marcus stepped up beside him, his hand drifting to the hilt of his gladius. "Maybe they went back down the path? Or…" He trailed off, scanning the shadows beyond the clearing.
"Or what?"
Marcus didn't answer. Instead, he gestured toward the far side of the Gate. Its massive, ancient doors stood slightly ajar, their hinges groaning softly in the wind.
What in the name of the gods...?
Lucius felt his stomach twist. The Gate was never supposed to be open. Not unless an order had come directly from the Emperor himself.
"We should go back," Lucius said quickly, his voice trembling. "Something's wrong. We need to report this."
Marcus hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the darkened clearing. "You go check the tents over there. Maybe they left something behind. I'll look closer at the Gate."
"Marcus, this—"
"Just do it, Lucius," Marcus snapped, his voice harsher than intended. "We can't go back empty-handed."
Reluctantly, Lucius nodded and began making his way toward the small cluster of tents. He moved cautiously, each step slow and deliberate, his ears straining for any sound beyond the soft crunch of his boots.
The tents were empty. He called out softly, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "Is anyone here? Legionnaire Lucius, reporting for shift duty!"
Panic began to rise up in his chest, his words dying out in the silence of the night. He turned to call for Marcus, but the words froze on his lips when he noticed something in the dirt near one of the tents—dark smears...
Is that...?
"Marcus?" he called, his voice louder now.
No reply.
"Marcus!"
Lucius turned toward the Gate, his breath quickening. The doors stood wider now, as if they had been pushed further open.
And Marcus was gone.
Lucius stuttered, stumbling back toward the path they had climbed.
I have to warn the others...
But as he turned, he froze.
Figures emerged from the darkness, their movements swift and silent. They wore strange, angular armor, their forms obscured by night and shadow. Their weapons glinted faintly in the dim light—odd, metallic objects unlike anything Lucius had ever seen.
A deafening crack split the air, and Lucius felt a searing pain tear through his torso. He stumbled, his hand instinctively clutching his side as warm blood spilled between his fingers. He hit the ground hard, his vision blurring as the world spun around him. The figures approached, their voices low and clipped, speaking in a tongue he couldn't understand.
One of them knelt beside him, his weapon lowering towards his own head.
Then, nothing.
"Kontakt unichtozhena."