Chapter 11. After the war with Louria.
Three days had passed since the war with Louria ended, but peace had yet to take hold. Some counts, intoxicated by the remnants of their former power, were stirring unrest, and tensions in the duchies were rising. While the Russian Federation was steadily securing its place on the world stage, the situation in Louria was far more fragile. The nobles who had once sworn loyalty to the king were now eager to claim his throne for themselves.
Russian volunteers from the Internal Troops accepted the challenge. Their mission was to stabilize the situation, help the king maintain his rule, and suppress the rebellious feudal lords whose greed knew no bounds. The task seemed simple in words: take out the ringleaders, eliminate the opposition, and prevent the country from descending into chaos.
A convoy of three "Tigr" armored vehicles and a heavy "Typhoon" rolled into one of the duchies where tensions had already begun to boil over into open rebellion. Behind the gray metal hulls of the machines, muddy roads twisted and turned, lined with wretched settlements. Wooden huts with straw roofs and clay houses with peeling walls—it was as if time had stood still here.
Everything around them seemed calm, but it was nothing more than an illusion. Beneath this thin veil of normalcy lurked fear, mixed with indifference. Peasants hunched over their fields barely lifted their heads as the heavy vehicles rumbled through the ruts. These simple laborers knew their place: feed their own, pay the lord, and sell whatever was left at the market. Whoever ruled didn't concern them much—as long as new trouble didn't come knocking.
Inside the "Typhoon," a tense silence hung in the air. Only the occasional glance exchanged between soldiers and the rustling of gear broke the stillness. One of the fighters, adjusting his rifle, finally spoke up:
"Comrade Commander, permission to speak?"
The commander, gripping his body armor tightly, lifted his gaze from the tablet in his hands.
"Speak."
"Why won't they settle down?" The soldier nodded toward the villages passing by outside the armored windows. "These little tyrants… They could've negotiated, but instead, they're acting like rabid dogs."
The commander smirked and lit a cigarette, taking his time before answering.
"Rebellions are contagious, soldier. There will always be people who want more. Think about it—while some work, others dream of ruling. Revolutionaries, insurgents," he exhaled a slow stream of smoke, "they think an uprising is a path to a better life. But the truth isn't in their heads. Smart, calculating people use them—people with simple goals: power and money. They stir up the mob so they can rule while others spill blood for them."
The soldier nodded, though uncertainty still flickered in his eyes.
"So, it's all for nothing?"
The commander crushed the cigarette, leaned back against the seat.
"It's not for nothing if someone knows how to stop the chaos. That's our job. Got it?"
"Loud and clear, Comrade Commander!" the soldier barked, finally grasping both the simplicity and the harshness of the truth.
The gray morning slowly spread over the devastated land. The sky, covered in low-hanging clouds, seemed to mourn the silent ruins. A faint breeze stirred the air, lifting ashes that swirled above the charred remains of houses, turning the village into a grim monument to destruction. The thick scent of burning clung to the air, mixing with the metallic tang of recent violence.
The convoy kept moving. Forests gave way to fields, and though war had left its mark, life carried on. People worked as they had for centuries, mere pawns on a chessboard where the real players fought for power.
His gaze wandered over the ruined streets, lingering on the crumbling walls and broken bodies.
"Damn..." he muttered, bitterness seeping into his voice. "They're killing their own... the ones who keep them fed."
The armored column rumbled past. On the scorched asphalt, the rhythmic thudding of wheels and the growl of engines echoed ominously, breaking the eerie silence.
"Shit!" the driver of the lead vehicle suddenly cursed, slamming on the brakes. The vehicle jolted over a pothole, and he instinctively gripped the wheel. At that moment, an arrow struck the windshield with a dull thud, bouncing off the reinforced glass.
"Ambush!" the driver shouted, grabbing the radio. His voice rang out through the comms.
The convoy came to an abrupt halt. Dust billowed up in thick clouds, shrouding the vehicles.
"Where's the fire coming from?" the commander asked coolly over the radio.
"Northwest, 310 degrees," came the thermal operator's response.
Figures began emerging from the tree line. Dirty, half-naked men with wild eyes, twisted with fanatic rage. Their armor was a crude mix of ancient metal plates and makeshift scraps, their weapons ranging from rusted swords to mere wooden clubs.
"Gunners, on the turrets! Nobody leaves the vehicles!" the commander barked, his voice snapping the crews into action.
Then came the familiar roar of the cannons:
BRRRRRRT!
The bursts from the GSh-6-23M ripped through the air, cutting down the attackers like a scythe through wheat. Each shot left a trail of devastation in its wake. But the enemy's fanatical determination knew no bounds. They screamed, ignoring their losses, surging forward as if driven by pure, blind hatred.
"Light 'em up!" the commander yelled, wiping sweat from his brow. His eyes stayed locked on the thermal display. "More at 301! Another two at 340!"
As the machine guns paused for reloading, the automatic grenade launchers took over. With a sharp thump, the AGS spat out deadly rounds, shredding the attackers into bloody fragments. Explosions tore through the earth, sending shrapnel into those foolish enough to get close.
"There's just too damn many of them!" the commander growled into the radio. The response from base crackled with slight interference:
"Mi-24 gunships will be in your sector in ten minutes. Hold your position."
For a brief moment, the battlefield fell silent. A handful of attackers still fought, but their resistance was doomed. The last bursts from the heavy Kord machine guns sealed their fate.
Silence once again settled over the scorched ground. The commander exhaled heavily, removing his helmet to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The thermal display still showed the fading heat signatures of fallen enemies, their bodies twitching in their final moments.
"Cease fire," he ordered. "Check ammo. How much do we have left?"
"Enough for a few more battles, comrade commander," came a dry, almost amused response over the radio.
The commander frowned thoughtfully. He stepped back to his vehicle and switched to the long-range frequency to report to base. The debrief was quick: the ambush, the enemy's numbers, the fanatical resistance. They weren't deserters or professional mercenaries—just local warbands, caught up in the chaos of conflict.
The intelligence update caused concern at HQ. The commander was informed that a Mi-24 reconnaissance flight would be dispatched to scan the area.
Shortly after, among the helicopter pilots, a new event unfolded.
"I've spotted another enemy camp!" the lead pilot called out.
"Engage!" the flight leader ordered, and four attack helicopters unleashed their rockets on the enemy encampment.
Panic erupted in the camp. The bandits, stripped of any semblance of discipline, scrambled to escape their inevitable fate. In their blind fear, they trampled one another, crushed beneath the weight of their own desperation. It wasn't the gunfire that killed them—it was sheer chaos. As the helicopters turned back to base, their mission was complete. They left behind only smoke, ruins, and the terrified faces of those who had survived.
Night fell quietly, but tension hung in the air. A special assault unit, formed from Internal Troops volunteers, arrived at their destination. The darkened fields stretched before them, swallowed by the night. Two kilometers ahead stood Duke Baritan's estate—a massive four-story structure, surrounded by a two-meter-high stone wall. More fortress than noble residence, it concealed a threat greater than just a single wealthy lord: an entire army ready to defend him.
Eighteen soldiers, disembarking from their Tigr armored vehicles, began preparations for the assault. Every movement spoke of determination; every action, of experience and discipline. There was no time for hesitation. Weapons were checked, positions taken, and each soldier steeled himself for the possibility of death. There was no room for doubt.
The first explosions shattered the silence—the AGS-17 grenade launchers unleashed a barrage on the estate. The soldiers remained poised, entirely focused, ready to strike.
One of them wasted no time. "Ready!" he called, firing an RPG-18 at the western wall. The explosion rocked the ground, sending shockwaves through the air. The wall cracked, creating gaping breaches. This was the moment. More blasts followed—grenades tearing apart the night's stillness. The machine guns remained silent, their barrels sweeping the perimeter, scanning for threats.
Enemy soldiers began emerging from the estate, clad in mismatched armor, weapons in hand. The assault teams took cover in a natural ravine, hidden beneath the trees. In the brief lull, they exchanged quiet jokes—one last attempt to ease the tension before the inevitable fight. The wait was agonizing, but discipline never wavered. One soldier manned a PKM machine gun with a thermal scope, tracking enemies lurking in the darkness, like a predator ready to strike.
As enemy fire subsided, the AGS teams resumed their barrage. Night cast its thick veil over the battlefield, pierced only by the occasional break in the clouds. Without hesitation, the assault teams advanced. Snipers had already taken position, covering every possible angle. Chaos reigned—the ground littered with corpses, the mist still clinging to the battlefield.
At the commander's signal, one soldier swiftly breached a door, tossing in a flashbang. The sharp crack of the detonation signaled their entry. Silent as shadows, they moved inside. The first floor was empty—only signs of disorder, shattered furniture, broken windows. Fear had already passed through these halls.
They moved to the second floor, finding another locked room. Silence loomed behind the door. A soldier used a specialized device to scan the space—more wreckage, bloodstains, overturned furniture. A telltale sign that something more than a mere skirmish had taken place here.
On the third floor, they found blood trailing up the stairs, leading to a single door. Someone had been wounded, perhaps fatally. The soldiers moved in—swift, precise. The door was ajar, the room beyond in disarray. But there was something else in the air—a lingering presence, an unshakable tension.
And they knew: they were close.
In the dark corridors of the mansion, where only the dim glow of flashlights illuminated the soldiers' path, silence reigned, broken only by the heavy echo of boots on stone floors. The special forces moved steadily, deliberately. Their breathing was controlled, their expressions hardened—men long accustomed to unexpected and horrifying situations.
"Clear," one of them muttered as he stepped out of the room.
"Jester, report!" a static-laced voice crackled through the radio.
"King, Jester here," the squad leader responded, his voice steady but laced with tension. "What's your situation?"
"It's… a goddamn nightmare." The transmission distorted, but the fear in the voice was unmistakable.
"Give me a proper report," Jester snapped. Time for details was a luxury they didn't have.
"Abort your search and get to the basement. We've found the target. Copy?"
Static crackled again.
"Copy. Moving out. Over."
One by one, they descended into the cellar, where the walls bore witness to past horrors—grimy handprints, old bloodstains. The place reeked of history, of suffering. But now, it was empty.
When one of the operatives entered a room and saw the duke's hanging corpse, his face darkened. Baritan—a man he might never have known personally—was now just another casualty of war. His body dangled from the ceiling like a grotesque puppet, swaying slightly in the damp air. The stench of decay was suffocating. The soldier noticed the deep scratches on the man's fingertips—proof that he had fought desperately against his fate but ultimately failed.
Nearby lay another victim—his wife, the duchess. She wasn't hanged. Her body had been thrown onto the bed, her chest slashed open, dark bruises on her neck where hands had squeezed the life from her. She had been tortured, mutilated. And then, most likely, executed.
A chilling thought raced through the soldier's mind—who could be this ruthless?
"Fucking monsters," one of them muttered, staring at the duchess's lifeless form.
"No kidding…" another replied, his face pale. There was a hardness in his voice, a soldier's resolve, but even he couldn't suppress the disgust creeping into his expression.
Their commander broke the silence.
"Where's their daughter?" His voice was rough, tight. "They had a daughter. Check the second floor. Tungus, Corvette, with me!"
The team moved quickly, their footsteps echoing through the empty hallways. They reached a locked door and forced it open with a single, well-placed kick. The wood splintered, crashing inward. As they stepped inside, a scene straight out of a nightmare unfolded before them.
A girl—no older than twelve or thirteen—lay among the wreckage of shattered furniture, barely breathing. Her face was caked in dirt and dried blood.
"Tungus, check her for wounds—any cuts, punctures. Make sure she's not going to lash out at you," the commander instructed, his eyes locked on the fragile form before him.
Tungus nodded and pulled out his medical kit, moving with the practiced efficiency of a seasoned field medic. He carefully pried open her small, bloodied hand, revealing a shard of glass embedded deep in her palm. The wound had barely bled—she was already too weak to fight it.
"Status?" Jester whispered.
"She'll live," Tungus murmured, lifting the girl into his arms. She was weightless, a fragile, broken thing cradled against his chest. Her face was streaked with silent tears. This was more than pain—it was despair, absolute and consuming.
Jester reached for his radio.
"Target acquired?" came the commander's voice.
"Confirmed. The target and his wife are dead—taken out before we arrived."
A pause. Then:
"Any survivors?"
"The daughter…" Jester's voice faltered, the bitterness in his tone unmistakable.
The commander gave the order.
"Alright. Get her out. Once she stabilizes, we'll question her about what happened."
Dawn broke. When the girl finally opened her eyes, she found herself lying on soft grass beneath an open sky. The air was crisp, untouched by the horrors she had endured. For a fleeting moment, it almost felt unreal. Maybe it was all just a nightmare.
Then she turned her head and saw him.
A man stood nearby, clad in dark green armor, as if he had stepped out of some ancient war.
"You're awake," his voice echoed from beneath his helmet.
"Who… who are you?" Her voice was raw, trembling. "Where are my… my father and mother?"
A cold shiver coursed through her. In his eyes, she saw something that made it all real—pity. And that pity only deepened her pain.
"Mama! Papa!" she screamed, her voice cracking, her heart shattering. She didn't understand. She couldn't understand. Her world had been torn apart in an instant, and no one could put it back together.
The soldier didn't move, didn't reach out to comfort her. That wasn't his role. He was here to get her out, to ensure her survival. Nothing more.
Hours passed before she finally quieted, her body still trembling from the shock.
"Tell me… Lymia, what happened?" Jester asked softly.
The girl turned to face him, her eyes hollow, her shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world had come crashing down upon her. In a weak, broken voice, she began.
"It… it happened a few days ago. My father… when he heard about Loria's defeat in the war, something changed in him. He started drinking, yelling. He never hurt me or my mother. But he locked himself in his study. Wouldn't come out. Then Bernard came—one of his vassals. He was in charge of our defenses. That's when… everything fell apart."
Her voice shook, her mind dragging her back into the nightmare. Tears welled up in her eyes again, but she pressed on.
"Mama took me upstairs, to the guest room. I saw our troops standing behind the walls. I saw my father shouting. Then… there was an explosion. Everything turned to chaos. Servants were screaming and then… The next day, it was quiet. Just drunken, looting soldiers…"
Jester listened, his heart pounding. He had heard countless horror stories before, but each time, it felt just as heavy.
He didn't know what to say. So he simply nodded and stood, ready to report what he had just learned.
The squad commander continued questioning Limia about the recent events, clarifying the information she had provided and asking various questions. After that, he reported to headquarters. Upon receiving orders, they searched the estate, uncovering numerous treasures hidden in the wine cellar, along with various documents. Finally, they buried Limia's parents, whom she bid farewell to, before heading back to their base in Beales.
The girl wanted to run far away from Rodenius and never think about that terrible nightmare again. But things were far more complicated than they seemed at first glance. Limia was the daughter of an aristocratic family that lived in a medieval world, where power, honor, and obligations dictated her every step. She was surrounded by castles, towering walls, and crusades. Her entire life was bound to this rigid, violent era, where personal freedom was a luxury, and customs and traditions dictated her fate.
After the war in Rodenius, Limia fled to Russia as a refugee. Finding herself in an entirely new world, she faced a challenge far greater than she had anticipated. She hadn't just moved to a different place—she had been transported to an entirely different era, from the Middle Ages straight into the modern 21st century. In the blink of an eye, she was in a world where cars and phones were an essential part of life, and ancient castles had been replaced by towering skyscrapers.
In Russia, she was granted citizenship. And so, a new chapter of her life, full of uncertainty, began. Starting with the basics of modern technology, Limia quickly adapted to contemporary life—smartphones, computers, the internet. She learned how to read news online, fill out forms, and use electronic bank cards—things that felt entirely foreign, almost magical to her. So much in her new world was unfamiliar that at times, she felt as if she were living in a fairy tale.
Each day, she adapted a little more to her new life, which felt like learning a foreign language—complex and full of promise, yet always alien. With every new morning, she distanced herself from her past and tried to find her place in this world.
Before long, she found new parents—people who became her support system. They were kind and caring, yet Limia still felt a void inside her, the lingering pain of everything she had lost. She was grateful for their support, but her heart remained heavy with sorrow. However, as she settled into her new life, she met good people—friends who helped her move forward. Each passing year made her life brighter, but the pain she had endured could never truly be forgotten.
After proving herself to be a determined and intelligent student, Limia was accepted into Lomonosov Moscow State University's Faculty of Economics. There, she continued her journey, but the weight of her past remained within her, like an unrelenting wound that neither time nor good fortune could ever fully heal.