The collapse of the Kingdom. Part 1.
The Border Town of Gim. Territory under the jurisdiction of the Russian Armed Forces.
Where a shattered city once lay, now stood an impregnable craters from explosions and heaps of debris had been replaced by towering reinforced concrete structures. The barracks, clean and functional, housed scores of soldiers. Nearby, information boards with vivid diagrams and detailed instructions outlined military ranks, guard duty protocols, fire safety measures, and other essentials. Above the headquarters' main entrance hung a bold banner declaring: "To send untrained men to war is to betray them." Inside this imposing structure, erected by engineers in record time, Major General Alexey Aleksandrovich Voroshilov, commander of the 1st Qua-Toyne Liberation Division, waited intently for confirmation to launch Phase One of "Operation Liberation". His eyes remained fixed on monitors tracking the readiness of the Aerospace Forces (VKS) and Navy (VMF) for joint action. The plan had been refined to the smallest detail: first, the VKS would strike the enemy's port and wyvern stables using satellite reconnaissance data. The VMF would then blockade the coast, followed by the main ground assault. Success hinged on precision and coordination.
The entire border with Qua-Toyne was fortified by massive concrete walls topped with razor wire. Soldiers manned watch towers overlooking the perimeter, scanning the terrain with high-powered searchlights. At the wall's center stood colossal gates adorned with a red five-pointed star. Beside them, a modern checkpoint operated smoothly, rigorously screening all personnel and vehicles. Every detail of the defenses reflected the Russian military's deep understanding of the coming conflict. Though the enemy relied on archaic weaponry, no one dared underestimate their numbers or tenacity.
Yet not everything was seamless. A quiet undercurrent of sabotage simmered in the supply depots. A warrant officer, notorious for hoarding the best equipment for contract soldiers, was at it again. This sparked frustration in Sergeant Major Sergei Petrov.
— That mustached bastard, — Petrov grumbled, running a hand over the stock of his AK-74M. — *Contract troops get the AK-107 and AK-12, while we're stuck with these old reliables.
— What's it matter to the conscripts? — replied a soldier. — They're here on short rotations — look around, play soldier, then go home. We're the ones stuck holding the line.
— Alexander Vasilyevich was right! — the sergeant major snapped.
— About what? —
— "After five years in logistics, any quartermaster deserves a noose — no trial needed," — Petrov quoted Suvorov, then sighed. — Be glad they didn't issue us Fedorov Automats or PPShs (World War II-era submachine guns). We've got warehouses full of that junk. Hell, rumor is the General Staff seriously considered giving us SKS rifles (Simonov self-loading carbines) and PPShs.
The soldier grinned:
— You kidding?
— Nah, just messing with you, — Petrov shrugged.
— Petrosyan (like Larry David comic), you're a riot, — the soldier chuckled.
With the banter over, they returned to their duties, steeling themselves for the operation's start.
The Kingdom of Louria, Hark Castle.
The grand hall, typically gleaming with opulence and grandeur, now hung thick with a heavy, suffocating tension. Elaborate tapestries depicting Louria's historic victories served only as bitter reminders of faded glory. Maps and reports lay scattered across tables, evidence of the chaos and panic gripping the kingdom's leadership. Chancellor Maos paced restlessly, his face twisted with rage and despair. Army Commander General Patagene sat slumped, his head bowed, hands trembling. Court Mage Yamirei, usually calm and composed, looked shaken and pale. Even the typically stoic high command seemed crushed. The defeat at Gim had been the final straw.
—This is a disaster!— Chancellor Maos's voice cracked the silence like a whip. His gnarled hands gripped a carved wooden staff. —We failed to hold Qua-Toyne's territory! How do we explain this to His Majesty?!
—I… I don't know…— General Patagene, a burly man with a square jaw, wiped his sweating brow, avoiding Maos's gaze. His voice trembled as if choking on bile. —He'll remind me of my promise to seize Rodenius swiftly… that it was defended by "pig herders and peasants."
Maos snorted in disgust and turned to the court mage, whose shadowed figure loomed near the far wall.
—These cowards fight with cursed magical weapons! Master Yamirei, as royal mage, you must know more. Speak! What are your thoughts?
Yamirei, a gaunt, bearded man with weary eyes, slowly raised his head. His gaze flickered as if haunted.
—From… the reports…— he whispered hoarsely, each word dragged from him. —It was a spell… a "guided light arrow."He paused, fear tightening his throat. —Ancient magic… It can only mean…
His eyes glazed over, lips quivering.
—The Ravemal Empire… has returned.
The mage's words struck like thunder in the tomb-like silence. Faces froze in horror. Seconds crawled by, the air thickening with dread.
—You're right, Master Yamirei,— Patagene finally rasped, sinking deeper into his chair. —It explains the losses… the relentless defeats.
—But the legends say Ravemal's return would plunge the world into darkness in a day,— Maos countered coldly, weighing each word. —This is coincidence. If Ravemal truly rose, they'd drown us in blood—not negotiate with lesser nations.
Yamirei nodded weakly.
—Yes… You may be right, Chancellor. This…Russia… is newly emerged, yet already feared. Forgive my speculation.
Maos opened his mouth to reply—
—Enough myths!— General Smark's roar startled the room. His face burned with fury. —We're losing this war! And it'syourfault, Maos! You doddering fool—you misjudged the enemy!
He slammed a fist on the table, rattling goblets.
—Remember the Russians? Their manners, their clothes! We've poked the bear! You threw out their envoys over an alliance with Qua-Toyne's "half-breeds"! Had they not shown mercy, we'd beaches!
Smark's chest heaved as he scanned the room. Some faces paled; others flushed with shame.
—Six years!— he snarled. —Six years the king prepared—racking up debts, bleeding our vassal states dry! And now we teeter on collapse!
He seized a goblet, hurled it against the wall, and stormed out, the door slamming like a gunshot.
Silence returned, heavier than before.
—Should we… toss him in a cell to cool off?— Patagene ventured weakly.
—No,— Maos snapped, rising with steel in his eyes. —His anger is justified. What matters now is Russia's next move. Double the patrols and garrisons. I'll report to the king.
—Yes, Chancellor,— Patagene and his aide bowed in unison.
Maos strode out, his footsteps echoing through the hollow hall like a death knell.
— You've enraged them! You'll pay for your vile deeds! Pray to your gods for salvation!— The man's voice roared like a steel blade slicing through the lifeless silence. His scarred face, twisted by torture, bore the marks of relentless suffering, yet his eyes burned with unquenchable fury. He stood atop the scaffold in tattered rags, surrounded by a crowd of indifferent onlookers. Their eyes held no fear—only apathy. They didn't understand what he was about to unleash.
This place—the square beside Northern Port's town hall—had long been a symbol of Louria's power. Now, it became the stage for his final act. Execution. Pain. No fear. No regret. Only vengeance. He longed to see those responsible for his torment swallowed by the abyss about to engulf this world.
Overhead, cutting through ominous clouds, a squadron of Su-34 fighter-bombers screamed across the sky, their engines thundering like wrathful gods. The people below instinctively looked up, faces paling. This wasn't just noise—it was a harbinger. A storm.
— Hahaha! Here it comes! Retribution! Burn in hell, you filth!— His wild laughter tore through the air as if his rage alone could poison the atmosphere. He'd waited for this moment, for his curses to become reality.
Then it happened.
A deafening explosion ripped through the shipyard and nearby market, as if the earth itself had split open. The shockwave tore through streets, reducing buildings to rubble. Civilians—once bystanders—now scrambled like madmen, trampling each other to escape the unseen hell raining from above.
At Louria's naval headquarters, alarms blared at maximum urgency. Fleet Commander Veyl barked orders, his voice icy but steady:— Contact the wyvern squadron commander! We need air support—NOW!
— Yes, sir!— An aide bolted from the room like a shot.
But it was too late.
A direct hit struck the knights' barracks. Wyverns—majestic, lethal—were blasted mid-flight, their massive bodies crashing into rooftops and streets.
— Target the wyverns! Focus fire!— A knight commander screamed, his voice fraying between fury and terror. This battle would decide everything. But as flames engulfed the sky, victory slipped further from reach.
Coast of Rodenius.
Tension hung thick in the captain's bridge of the frigate Admiral Naval Soviet Union Isakov. The commander stood rigid before a glass console, eyes locked on a monitor tracking glowing blips—enemy wyverns surging skyward.
—Comrade Captain, enemy wyverns detected!— A radioman's voice cut sharply through the hum of engines and electronics. His tone was steady, but urgency simmered beneath—no one aboard could ignore the threat.
The captain didn't turn. His gaze remained fixed on the screen, where the winged shapes closed in with lethal speed.
—Open fire the moment they're in range— he ordered, voice clipped yet resolute. Hesitation wasn't an option. Every second counted.
—Aye, Captain!— The aide responded instantly, already relaying commands.
Military Base in Gim.
Major General Alexey Aleksandrovich stood at the window, his gaze locked on the convoy below—focused, unyielding. Only the crackle of the radio broke the silence.
—Received. Out.— He shut off the radio with a clipped motion, his expression hardening into steel.
Without hesitation, he grabbed the megaphone and barked toward the formation assembling outside:
—First Division, move out!— His voice cut through the air, authoritative and precise, brimming with resolve. —Good hunting!
In seconds, the troops snapped into position. Engines roared to life, machinery clanking into motion—a cacophony echoing across the base like the thunderous advance of an approaching storm. The column lurched forward, rolling out of Gim with lethal purpose, ready to spearhead the assault on Louria.
Lourian Airspace.
The Su-34s, like deathly shadows, loosed their air-to-air missiles. In seconds, half of the Second Wyvern Rider Squadron vanished in a firestorm of flames and smoke. The surviving riders scattered in panic, spiraling through the chaos, their minds reeling—Where was the enemy? When would the next strike come?War had become an incomprehensible nightmare.
—What… is this horror?— one rider whispered, watching his comrades dissolve into ash. His voice trembled with terror, his heart pounding like a war drum. Suddenly, his wyvern jerked into a nosedive, evading an unseen threat.
—Stop fighting me! Wh-what are you—?— he screamed, yanking the reins. But the panicked beast ignored him, crash-landing in a tangle of wings and limbs. The rider tumbled across the dirt, clutching his throbbing spine.
— Damn, that hurt… — he groaned, struggling to his feet. He turned to his wyvern, which was now panting heavily on the ground. — What was that?
The creature tilted her snout skyward, her labored breaths steaming in the cold air.
— Oh my Gods …— the rider choked, following her gaze. What unfolded overhead wasn't a battle—it was slaughter. Sleek, jet-black missiles streaked like vengeful spirits, trailing smoke as they hunted riders with inhuman precision. Even the swiftest wyverns couldn't outrun death.
He knelt beside his mount, running a hand over her scaled head. —You saved my life.
A clatter of chainmail interrupted him. A guardsman sprinted over, shouting:
—Hey! You alive? What unit are you with?
—Unharmed,— the rider muttered, voice hollow. —Second Wyvern Squadron. My wyve…retreated.
The guardsman studied him, his tone gravelly with dread:
—You're lucky to be breathing.
—What do you mean?
—All… the royal wyvern riders… They're gone.— The words hung like a death sentence. —You're the last.
—What?! A hundred riders? Impossible!— The man collapsed to his knees. —Not even the Three Civilized Zone could…
The guardsman gripped his shoulder, but his silence said it all. The skies belonged to the enemy now. Louria's pride lay broken, its warriors dust in the wind.
Near the port of Louria.
Hoyle stood on the pier, stunned by what unfolded in the sky. His emotions raged like a storm—fury, disbelief, and helplessness choked him, a vise tightening around his throat. His eyes, brimming with bitter disappointment, refused to accept the scene before him. The pride of every nation, the wyverns—revered as the pinnacle of military might—had been obliterated as if they were not symbols of power, but mere illusions,a speck of dust to be brushed away.
His thoughts shattered as his aide's trembling voice cut through the chaos. The man approached, clutching a spyglass with shaking hands.
"Commander… They're here…"The words barely escaped the aide's lips.
"Give it to me."Hoyle snapped, snatching the spyglass. He jerked it toward the horizon where the aide had pointed. The moment his gaze locked onto the ships, his face darkened like storm clouds.
There, cutting through the water's surface, loomed vessels Hoyle recognized instantly. He knew—these were warships of the Russian Federation. How? None of the neighboring kingdoms possessed such monstrosities. Not even the Empire of Parpaldia, where he'd trained in naval strategy, had anything comparable. These leviathans were floating palaces, armored in steel and armed with technology—or magic—unfathomable to ordinary mortals.
Hoyle stood frozen, the spyglass trembling in his grip. His aides and officers shouted, yanking at his shoulders, but their voices faded into a muffled roar. The tension swelled until they broke, fleeing the pier in panic, abandoning Hoyle like a statue carved from dread. Inside, his instincts screamed,"Run! Run!"—but it was too late.
It happened in a heartbeat. The pier, the entire naval headquarters of Louria—all vanished in a cataclysm of artillery fire. Only flames and smoke remained, devouring the sky.