Chapter 9. The liberation of the Gim.
Several hours after a swift and brutal operation that left behind piles of mangled metal and torn enemy bodies, a mechanized infantry platoon approached the site of the carnage. Accompanied by two anti-aircraft missile systems (SPAA) and a self-propelled radar station, the convoy was under the command of a young yet experienced Junior Lieutenant Antonov. The heat was unbearable. The sun, like a giant furnace, mercilessly scorched every living thing, evaporating every drop of moisture. Inside the BMP armored vehicles, which served as temporary shelters for the soldiers, the air was thick and heavy, reminiscent of a steam bath. Even through layers of steel, the scorching heat made the soldiers feel like sardines in a can.
To protect themselves from stray shots and considering intelligence reports about the enemy's arsenal—primarily medieval weapons such as swords, spears, and bows, coupled with the threat of magical creatures like wyverns—the soldiers didn't dare expose themselves. Recon had reported enough to warrant caution. For this mission, they had been outfitted with specialized gear known as the "Form-RS1."
"RL1" stood for "Rodenius Summer-1," and the name spoke for itself. The equipment was specifically designed for battles against medieval-level opponents. It consisted of an advanced set of protective elements. Each soldier was equipped with durable yet incredibly lightweight trousers and jackets made of high-tech fabric that provided excellent thermoregulation and protection against cuts and bites. Flexible kevlar armor of the first protection class shielded their arms, legs, and groin without restricting movement. Each soldier wore third-class protective "Zhuk" body armor, featuring digital camouflage that blended seamlessly with the environment. Their heads were protected by 6B28bmR helmets with shockproof visors, compatible with thermal imaging, night vision, and combined optics. Ballistic goggles completed the protective ensemble, shielding their eyes from debris and dust. Each soldier carried a tactical vest that held five magazines and three grenades, along with a 25-liter combat backpack packed with essential supplies.
Slowly and with utmost caution, the armored vehicles advanced toward the combat site, guided by data from unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs). Finally, the lead BMP-3 stopped about 100 meters from the location of the recent artillery strike. The air here still shimmered from the explosions, and the ground was littered with torn bodies in armor and fragments of medieval weapons. The silence, broken only by the crackling of radios and the faint hum of engines, weighed heavily on everyone, underscoring the scale of the devastation.
"Falcon to Nest, visual confirmation of enemy elimination. Do you copy? Over," Junior Lieutenant Antonov's voice crackled through the vehicle's radio. Tense from both the heat and the situation, he kept his eyes glued to the monocular, carefully scanning the surroundings through the BMP-3's optical sight. The air shimmered with heat, and even inside the armored vehicle, the oppressive warmth was palpable.
"Nest to Falcon, received. Visual confirmation noted. Assess the extent of the damage. Be sure to inspect the area for unexploded ordnance and possible documents. Take detailed photographs, including all specifics, for our Qua-Toynian partners. Do you copy? Over." The commanding voice on the other end was firm and precise, a clear sign that headquarters expected a thorough report.
"Falcon to Nest, copy that. Conducting a detailed inspection and photography. Out." Antonov turned off the radio. His task wasn't just to document the operation's results but also to ensure the safety of his men.
The convoy halted at a safe distance from the battlefield. The oppressive silence, broken only by the faint crackle of radios and the whisper of wind over the sun-scorched grass, bore down on the soldiers. Emerging from their vehicles like wasps from a hive, the troops moved to their assigned positions with the professional precision honed by years of training.
"Jesus…," murmured a young contract soldier on his first deployment. His face pale, he clutched his rifle tightly, as if seeking comfort in its steel frame. "That smell… I'll never forget the smell of death. It'll haunt my nightmares."
The battlefield was a horrifying sight. Torn bodies, shattered armor, and the remains of medieval weapons were strewn across the ground in a grotesque mix of blood and metal. Among the heaps of mangled remains, some soldiers found nearly intact bodies clad in medieval armor, while a faded banner bearing the emblem of the Lourian Battle Order fluttered eerily in the center. Sergeant Nikitin and his team were assigned to thoroughly examine this part of the battlefield, document everything, and take photographs for the Qua-Toynian experts.
Suddenly, a piercing, terrified scream broke the silence: "A-A-A-AH! NO! PLEASE! I didn't mean to… I didn't mean to…"
The cry came from beneath a pile of corpses, causing the soldiers to instinctively raise their AK-12 and AK-109M rifles toward the source. The sharp clicks of fire selectors switching to "ready" shattered the fragile calm.
"Damn it!" swore Sergeant Nikitin, aiming at the figure crawling out from under the mound of bodies. "Son of a—! Who the hell are you?"
"I… I didn't mean to… they forced me…," rasped a wounded soldier, his voice trembling with pain and fear. "I… I just wanted to live… with my wife…"
Another anguished wail escaped the man, filled with despair and terror. This wasn't a warrior; this was a broken, terrified human being. Even the seasoned soldiers, hardened by the horrors of war, couldn't remain indifferent to the sight. It's often said that all differences fade in the face of death. This nameless medieval soldier had faced unspeakable fear and somehow emerged alive from hellfire.
"Lieutenant, we've got a 'knight' who survived," Nikitin reported, pointing to the wounded man. "He's saying they forced him."
Antonov nodded, glancing at the sobbing figure, and then spoke into the radio: "Sir, we've found a survivor during the inspection. He's in critical condition but alive. Medics are treating him."
"Alive?!" Antonov was taken aback. "How did he survive the artillery barrage? Concussion?"
"No idea, sir."
"Understood. Report back with a full account later. Try to get his story."
"Yes, sir!" Nikitin returned to his squad, leaving Antonov alone with the indescribable horror of the battlefield and the miraculous survival of one enemy combatant.
The captured knight slowly regained his senses. The strong drink, burning like fire, seared his throat. At first, he thought it was some form of torture, but then, recalling his earlier screams and the fact that the soldiers hadn't killed him outright, he dismissed the thought. The soldiers, clad in strange armor he'd never seen before, handed him a small stick adorned with white specks. It emitted a bitter-sweet herbal scent. Gesturing, they indicated it would help calm him down. Still trembling from stress and pain, the knight hesitantly took it. One of the soldiers ceremoniously lit the end of the stick. The knight took a few deep breaths, letting the acrid smoke fill his lungs. Gradually, the shaking subsided, the fog in his mind lifted, and he felt his thoughts and speech returning to clarity.
The time for formal interrogation had come. Lieutenant Antonov and several of his subordinates gathered around the prisoner. The captive spilled everything he knew. He was just a simple soldier, forced into battle under the threat of death. He didn't want to fight; he dreamed of a peaceful life with his wife.
After the interrogation, the knight was shackled and placed in a secure armored chamber inside one of the vehicles.
"Damn cowards…" muttered Sergeant Nikitin as he secured the prisoner. "Just cannon fodder."
The next day, the soldiers continued inspecting the battlefield. Specialists from the Chemical, Biological, Radiological, and Nuclear Defense (CBRN) unit arrived at the camp. Their task was simple yet crucial: disposing of the bodies to prevent an outbreak of disease. The heaps of corpses were carefully piled up, doused with special chemicals, and set alight. The risk of something akin to the Black Plague spreading was far too great to ignore.
The Principality of Qua-Toyne. Capital of Qua-Toyne. Council of Lotuses Chamber.
Sunlight streamed through the lush vines entwining the Council building, casting a soft glow across the chamber where the members of the principality's highest governing body were gathered. The air carried the faint fragrance of exotic flowers and incense, mingling with the serene sounds of a pond nearby, where turquoise blossoms, resembling earthly lotuses, thrived amidst flowing streams.
An attaché, a young man with a weary expression, had just concluded his report on the recent war with the Lourian Kingdom. Laid out before him on the table were photographs of the battlefield—haunting evidence of the Russian Federation's devastating power.
"That concludes my report," he said in a faint voice, lowering his gaze.
A heavy silence filled the chamber. One of the Council's elders, a man of wisdom and age, studied the photographs with an expression of profound shock. His hand moved to his mouth, as if to stifle a gasp of horror.
"Gods... what an atrocity," he murmured, his voice trembling. "I... I can hardly believe it."
"How could they achieve such a result?!" another Council elder bellowed, rising sharply from his seat. "They claimed to possess no magic! And yet these photographs tell a different story... An army of twenty thousand annihilated in moments... They didn't even leave their positions! How on earth can this be explained?!"
"They unleashed hell itself on the battlefield," a third elder declared, his tone calm yet laced with unmistakable dread. Known for his analytical mind and deep understanding of military history, his words carried weight.
The chamber erupted into heated debate. Theories and speculation flowed freely. Some suggested the Russian soldiers were descendants of an ancient empire wielding forgotten magical technologies. Others dismissed such notions as absurd fantasies.
Kanata, the Head of the Council of Lotuses, raised his hand, calling for order. The soothing sound of decorative streams flowing through the chamber momentarily drowned out the escalating commotion.
"Please, direct your attention here," he commanded in a calm yet resolute tone.
His aides distributed documents to the gathered members, each printed on high-quality paper procured from the Russian Federation. The documents were strictly classified, containing the operational plan for a mission named "Liberation," meticulously crafted by the Russian military.
"This… this is…" the elder in charge of military affairs stammered, his eyes widening in astonishment as he skimmed the pages. His face turned pale.
"The Russian Federation is proposing Operation Liberation," Kanata announced, his voice imbued with respect and a trace of awe. "Their plan is to launch an assault on the city of Gim, employing their so-called 'dragon-like blades.'" He paused briefly, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. "They aim to advance as far as the Lourian Kingdom's capital and capture King Hark Louria himself. The Russian Armed Forces intend to draw out the Lourian forces and deliver a decisive, crushing blow. They request that we do not interfere, given their superior speed and logistics. Now, what is your verdict on this plan?"
Kanata's question required no verbal reply. The gravity of the situation and the sheer power of the Russian Federation were evident to all present.
"I have no objections," the first elder said solemnly.
"If they can bring an end to this cursed war with minimal losses, then so be it. I'm in favor!" added a second elder with conviction.
"I'm in agreement as well!" voices echoed from all sides.
The vote on Operation Liberation was unanimous. The Council of Lotuses endorsed the Russian Federation's strategy. The horror etched into their minds by the photographs was now replaced with a flicker of hope for a swift end to the war.
City of Gim. Lourian Kingdom High Command Headquarters.
"Where are the frontline forces?!" he roared, his voice echoing through the command tent, making everyone present flinch. "I demand a status report!"
One of the knights, a young man with a pale face and downcast eyes, responded mechanically, his voice devoid of emotion.
"My lord, we sent a request via manacom, but... no one responded."
Aden froze in place, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His patience had run out.
"This is starting to concern me," he hissed, his eyes burning with icy fury. "What about the scouting unit sent to Ejey?"
"They should be arriving soon, my lord," the knight stammered, lowering his head even further. He barely dared to breathe in the presence of the enraged general.
"Fine… Now get out of my sight!" Aden barked, waving a hand dismissively.
The knight practically stumbled out of the tent, as if a gust of wind had blown him away.
The Skies. Near the Site of the Lourian Army's Annihilation.
Meanwhile, Knight-Rider Muura, one of the Lourian Kingdom's most elite warriors, soared through the sky atop his trusted wyvern, surveying the battlefield below. The sky was shrouded in thick, ominous clouds, and the howling wind made flying both uncomfortable and perilous. His squadron of twelve wyverns had been deployed across the eastern frontlines, tasked with a simple reconnaissance mission—assess the situation.
But what they discovered defied all logic.
How could an army of twenty thousand simply vanish?
Mass desertion? Impossible.
Where could they have gone in such a short time?
Muura descended towards the sector where the frontline forces had last been seen.
"They should be around here somewhere…" he muttered, scanning the ground through the mist.
Dropping to an altitude of two hundred meters, Muura finally saw it.
Utter devastation.
The land was pockmarked with massive craters, the ground blackened and scorched. Piles of burned corpses lay in neat mounds, their skeletal remains surrounded by swarms of crows, harbingers of death. The stench of charred flesh and decay hit him like a wave, making his stomach churn.
"That... That smell…" he whispered, his face paling. "Wait… That's our battle standard!"
Panic surged through him. Reaching for his manacom, he hastily relayed his findings to headquarters. Moments later, a response crackled through—
"Land and investigate further. We need confirmation."
Shutting off the manacom, Muura guided his wyvern down.
"Gods… What kind of battle took place here?! This… this shouldn't even be possible… Headquarters, this is Muura, reporting—"
His words died in his throat.
Suddenly, his wyvern let out a low, guttural growl, its sharp eyes locking onto something in the distance.
Then he saw them.
On the horizon, several fast-moving, insect-like objects cut through the air, their forms sleek and unnatural. A deep, mechanical hum accompanied them, sending a chill down Muura's spine. His survival instincts flared, screaming at him to flee. Without thinking, he leapt onto his wyvern's back and took off, pushing it to its maximum speed.
And then—
A monstrous shape emerged from the storm clouds above.
A Mi-28M attack helicopter.
Before Muura could react, the war machine unleashed an R-73 missile.
A sharp, menacing hiss filled the air as the missile locked onto him with terrifying precision.
"Headquarters! I'm being pursued by an unknown enemy! It's like… a spear of light!" Muura's voice cracked with fear as he dodged frantically, trying to shake the relentless missile.
Then, an eerie sense of déjà vu gripped him.
Images flashed through his mind—his wife, their young daughter… Their smiles, their laughter… and his wife's final words before he left for battle:
"Take this amulet… It will protect you."
His hands moved instinctively, reaching for the small pouch at his waist. Inside was the gift from his wife—a peculiar golden talisman.
At that moment, just as the missile closed in—
The amulet flared with a brilliant, blinding light.
A protective barrier erupted around Muura and his wyvern, shimmering like a divine shield. The light was so intense that even the helicopter pilot momentarily lost visibility. At the same time, a wave of warmth and energy surged through Muura's body, filling him with an overwhelming sense of invincibility, as if an invisible force stood between him and certain death.
Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the light vanished.
The missile struck the barrier—
A deafening explosion rocked the sky—
And then… nothing.
Muura was unharmed.
The amulet's one-time protection had worked. The blast propelled him westward, allowing him to escape the battlefield.
"Gods… Thank you…" he whispered, his voice trembling with gratitude and shock at the miracle that had just unfolded.
He had survived.
Because of her.
Because of her love.
Because of the amulet's mysterious power.
City of Gim. Headquarters of the Lourian High Command.
Inside the spacious yet cluttered command tent, filled with maps and war trophies, tension hung thick in the air. Lieutenant General Adem paced back and forth, his usually cunning and menacing face twisted in anger. His fists clenched and unclenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The stale scent of old wood, wax, and worn parchment mixed with a faint, almost imperceptible trace of fear that seemed to permeate the very air inside the tent.
"Lord Adem… We've lost contact with the scouting patrol," murmured the mana-com operator, a young knight whose face had gone pale. His voice barely cut through the suffocating silence. He kept his head lowered, eyes fixed on the ground, as if hoping to disappear from the inevitable wrath of the general, a silent reflection of his own helplessness.
Adem came to an abrupt stop, his piercing gaze locking onto the unfortunate knight like a dagger. His voice, cold and sharp as tempered steel, rang through the tent.
"What was their last report?" he asked, his words laced with an eerie calmness—far more terrifying than open rage.
The operator swallowed hard, his throat tightening with fear. He frantically searched his memory, trying to recall the final transmission from the patrol.
"They… they said… they were being pursued… by arrows… with trails of smoke, my lord," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath, tinged with quiet despair. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, tiny droplets rolling down his pale skin like scattered pearls.
Adem's face contorted with fury. A guttural growl rumbled in his throat.
"One more pathetic excuse from you, and I will personally slit your throat!" he snarled, his eyes burning with white-hot rage. Then, forcing himself to rein in his temper, he turned sharply to General Pandur, who stood calmly over a table, studying the map spread across it. "General Pandur! Do you hear this nonsense?!"
"Adem," Pandur responded smoothly, still not looking up from the map. "Why shout? That won't help us find a solution. Let's focus. How is the main force's advance toward Gim progressing?"
Adem gritted his teeth, taking a deep breath to keep his fury in check. "Sir, at this moment—"
Before he could finish, one of his attendants burst into the tent, his face ashen, gasping for air.
"General Adem! It's urgent!" he wheezed, his voice trembling with terror.
The words froze Adem in place. A single bead of cold sweat rolled down his temple. He could tell—this was far worse than he had imagined.
"Lord Pandur!" Adem turned to the other general, his voice tense but steady. "We need reinforcements immediately! I'll go to Jin-Hark myself—we must mobilize every available force to hold Gim!"
Pandur gave a slow nod, his expression calm, yet a flicker of unease crossed his eyes.
"Very well, Lieutenant General. Go. This is a crucial matter—that's precisely why I trust you with it, Adem."
Adem rode hard toward Jin-Hark, his thoughts a whirlwind of dread.
"First—those thunderous, arrow-like blades… Then—the abandoned Gim… That same, inescapable feeling of doom… The failure at Fort Ejey, the collapse of our invasion into Qua-Toyne… all because of those damned Russians… Do they possess the ancient weapons of the lost ones? I must report this to the Observer."
Pandur watched the sky, assessing the situation. Forty-four wyverns—a formidable force, yet… doubt gnawed at him.
"I believe we should entrust the rear lines to the lieutenant general," he said to his aide. "What do you think?"
"I agree with your assessment, sir," the aide replied.
At that very moment, sixteen wyverns suddenly emerged over the city, shrouded in a dense veil of smoke. Moments later, a devastating barrage of rockets rained down upon the ruins of Gim. Then—a thunderous roar split the sky, and there they were—Su-34s, slicing through the heavens like steel predators.
"Fast-moving bastards…" one of the Lourian soldiers muttered, staring up in terror.
"What in the hell is that?!" Pandur shouted, his voice hoarse with horror. Panic spread like wildfire through what remained of his forces.
"They… they're dropping something… into the shelters!" a militiaman screamed, pointing skyward. His voice was drowned out by an earsplitting hiss, followed by explosions. From the sky, elongated "eggs" rained down, cracking open upon impact and unleashing dense white clouds. A sharp, acrid stench filled the air.
PSSSSSSHHHHHHH
"Gods above… those must be the 'blades' mentioned in the assault team's report…" Pandur's aide whispered, his voice barely audible over the rising cacophony of screams. His eyes widened in sheer terror as he pointed a trembling hand toward the expanding white mist. "My lord! We must flee at once! That cursed weapon cannot reach our soldiers underground! Please, we must ride—now!"
Pandur, momentarily paralyzed by the sheer horror unfolding before him, cast a desperate glance at his men. The army was already unraveling. Knights, militiamen—everyone was scattering in blind panic. The air was filled with agonized shrieks, the wretched sound of men choking on their own screams.
He saw it—the mist crawling hungrily through the streets, consuming everything in its path. Soldiers' armor melted away like wax, their flesh peeling from their bones in grotesque, blistering waves. Those who had taken shelter in hastily built dugouts now stumbled out, their faces twisted in pain, their skin raw and burned. The entire city was drowning in the white fog, filled with the wails of the dying.
Pandur had already seen the first corpses—charred flesh, bones protruding through blackened, bleeding masses. He clenched his reins so hard his knuckles turned white, struggling to steady himself in the saddle. His hands trembled, his legs felt weak. His stomach twisted into knots, nausea creeping up his throat. The piercing whistle of bombs filled the air, explosions erupting all around him, but he forced his horse forward, pushing it to its absolute limit.
His survival instinct screamed inside his head, like a storm roaring through his mind: Run. Don't look back. Just run!
Then, a thought crept in—one that sent an even deeper chill through his soul:
"This weapon… This horror… is not the work of mortals…"
A terrifying realization clawed at his mind. "What I'm witnessing… this isn't just a weapon. This is an echo of the ancient magical empire of Ravernal. Legends tell of their rise to unimaginable heights in magic—so bold they even challenged the gods themselves. Their arrogance provoked divine wrath—a 'falling star' was said to have obliterated their continent. The magical barrier protecting their land, Latistor, failed to withstand the impact. In that moment, those who didn't escape through ancient space-time portals were annihilated. That was five thousand years ago… yet even now, through countless generations, the mere name of the Ravernal Empire strikes raw, primal terror into the nations of the New World. A century of their brutal rule was built upon tyranny and unimaginable cruelty. They mastered magic beyond our comprehension. Their magical technology… it defied all reason…"
Then—impact.
A shockwave from a Su-34 bomb slammed into them with the force of a god's fury. Pandur was engulfed in a hellish inferno, his body incinerated before he could even blink. His aide and the rest of his retinue were torn apart by the blast, their heads and limbs shredded in an instant.
And just like that—the story of General Pandur came to an abrupt, merciless end.
Some time later, NBC (Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical) units arrived in Gim. Their task was grim yet unavoidable—neutralizing the aftermath of the chemical strike and disposing of the dead. The acrid stench of fire and decay hung thick in the air, a haunting reminder of the devastating price of defeat.
Here's your expertly translated passage, capturing the tone, professionalism, and atmosphere while making it feel natural in American English:
The military base on the outskirts of the industrial town of Sloboda hummed with steady, disciplined activity. Beyond the windows of the headquarters, where Major General Alexey Voroshilov of the 1st Liberation Division of Qua-Toyne was stationed, stretched an endless steppe—crisscrossed by roads and occasionally broken by dense patches of forest.
Inside the spacious command office, furnished for function rather than comfort and filled with the quiet hum of operational machinery, maps and tactical graphs flickered across a large projection screen.
"…Thus, we have successfully driven the enemy out of Gim. Zero casualties among our personnel," Major General Voroshilov reported with calm precision. His voice was steady and authoritative, carrying the quiet satisfaction of a job well done. "We are currently fortifying our position, conducting a sweep of the area, and securing key infrastructure. Engineering units are en route to restore communications and assess structural integrity."
Behind him, his aides stood at attention, closely observing his reaction and ready to provide any necessary details at a moment's notice. The weight of responsibility loomed over the commander, yet he exuded an air of confidence and control.
"Well done. Solid work," came a voice over the line. It was calm but carried an undeniable firmness and respect. "Proceed to the next phase of the operation. Awaiting your report on full territorial consolidation."
Alexey instinctively straightened his posture and snapped a crisp salute, his movements precise and disciplined.
"Yes, sir! For the Russian Federation!" he responded firmly, his voice filled with unwavering patriotism.
"At ease. Transmission over."
The projection screen flickered off.
As the operators powered down the system, Alexey slowly lowered himself into his chair, a trace of relief washing over his features. He pulled open a desk drawer, retrieving a small, carefully wrapped pack of premium coffee—grown by the finest agronomists in Siberia, thanks to the rich black soil imported from Qua-Toyne. He brewed it in his favorite thermos, inhaling the deep, bold aroma before taking a slow, satisfying sip.
At that moment, the coffee felt like a well-earned indulgence—almost a drug, a reward for the relentless demands of his duty. So much had weighed on him in recent weeks. The fanatical elves they had rescued near Gim, who had nearly fainted at the sight of a new face appearing on their surveillance monitors… He had endured it all, steadfast in his mission.
And now, at last, he could savor this small moment of respite.
Border City of Gim.
Territory Under the Control of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation
The city was a nightmarish sight—torn tents, shattered medieval war machines, and the ever-present stench of burning and decay. For the seasoned contract soldiers of the Chemical, Biological, and Radiological Protection Unit (CBRP), men hardened by exposure to death and destruction, the aftermath of white phosphorus munitions, though grim, was expected. They went about their work methodically, systematically clearing remnants of explosives and neutralizing hazardous substances.
But for the conscripts on their first deployment, the reality of war revealed itself in all its horrific clarity. They gagged, their hands trembled. Piles of corpses, clad in rusted medieval armor and caught in various stages of decomposition, painted an unspeakable horror. The sickly-sweet stench of rot and scorched flesh assaulted their nostrils, triggering nausea and pounding headaches. Even battle-hardened soldiers struggled to suppress their revulsion and fear. Their mission—to clear the city of the lingering effects of phosphorus munitions and decontaminate the wells—felt almost insurmountable.
Yet, despite setbacks and grueling effort, the CBRP unit completed its task.
Engineering units followed soon after, immediately beginning construction of primary fortifications along the border with the Kingdom of Louria. Sappers meticulously combed the area, carefully disarming any unexploded ordnance. Then came the motorized rifle and tank platoons, followed by the technical support workshops.
Within a single day, the outskirts of Gim had transformed—barbed-wire checkpoints were established, a tent city erected, and fuel stations put into operation.
Slowly but steadily, the city was beginning to come back to life. Operation "Liberation" had entered its next phase.