Chapter 7. The Apostles
The garrison near the industrial city of Sloboda in the Russian Federation, close to Fort Ejey.
In a small yet tidy office, saturated with the scent of paper, ink, and military-grade coffee, sat a man in his forties. The large epaulets on his uniform bore the glinting stars of a colonel. The room was quintessentially military—piles of paperwork covered the desk, and through the window, rows of military vehicles parked in perfect formation came into view. The colonel was engrossed in reading an order, leaning over his desk, when a soft knock at the door broke his concentration.
The colonel straightened up, collected himself, and raised his head just as a man entered. He was dressed in a uniform adorned with broad, gleaming golden epaulets—the unmistakable insignia of a major general. The colonel recognized him immediately and promptly rose from his seat, as protocol demanded.
"Good day, comrade Major General!" the colonel greeted him, his face breaking into a wide, toothy grin, his tone full of warmth and respect.
The major general—a man slightly past forty with a confident gaze—returned the smile with a subtle nod at the colonel's words.
"At ease, Boris Leonidovich," he said, taking the chair across from the colonel. Leaning back, he removed his hat and settled into a more relaxed position. "Looks like I've been assigned to you," he added with a touch of sarcasm. "I'm here to command what they're calling the 1st Liberation Division of Qua-Toyne. Quite the grand name, huh?" The major general chuckled, and the colonel smirked in response.
"Things at the top are a bit tense," the major general continued, a hint of irony lacing his tone. "We've been ordered to prepare for an offensive from the local Lourian natives." He paused, closing his eyes briefly, as if reflecting on the absurdity of such precautions. "Oh, and another directive just came in — we need to conduct some reconnaissance near Gim. Turns out there are villages out there with people who have no clue there's a war happening right next door."
"Got it. Ready for reinforcements!" the major general added enthusiastically, giving the colonel a firm pat on the shoulder.
The colonel nodded, processing the instructions.
"Understood, sir," he replied firmly. "We'll deploy helicopters and a motorized rifle platoon to sweep the area around Gim and report back."
Satisfied, the major general nodded, and the two men eased into conversation. What began as a formal exchange gradually transitioned into a more personal discussion. They talked about life, their service, their families, and how they had managed to handle the chaos caused by their unexpected relocation to another world. There was something strikingly similar about them—an unyielding determination and quiet strength, the hallmark of veterans who had faced dusty roads and the whistle of bullets more than once.
At one point, the major general, seizing a moment of quiet, interrupted the colonel, his gaze fixed thoughtfully on the six empty teacups now scattered on the table.
"Hey, Boris Leonidovich, have you stopped by to see General Now? He's the one in charge of that fort… what's it called again? Oh, right—Ejey?"
The colonel, visibly tired, let out a sigh, recalling the face of the general he had only glimpsed during their initial deployment.
"Not yet, Alyosha. Ever since we arrived, I've been swamped. Haven't had the chance, and honestly, it didn't seem all that urgent. But yeah, you've got a point..."
The major general gave him a reproachful look.
"We've built a mine, set up an entire military base, and even established an airfield nearby. And you still haven't dropped by to see him?"
The colonel, recognizing the validity of the remark, chuckled and nodded.
"Alright, let's finish our tea, and then we'll pay him a proper visit."
With that, they drained the last of their tea, stood up, and headed for the door.
Some time later, in the fortress of Ejey.
General Now, dressed in clothing reminiscent of 16th-century Tudor fashion, stood atop the fortress walls. Beyond the towering ramparts stretched rows of fortifications and soldiers. He couldn't help but feel a swell of pride in his creation. "High walls, vast stockpiles of supplies, a formidable garrison…" he thought with satisfaction. "It's invincible. Impregnable."
His musings were interrupted by an aide, who cleared his throat nervously and bowed.
"General Now, representatives from the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation have arrived," the aide reported, bowing a little deeper than usual, as if instinctively bracing for his commander's irritation.
"Hmph… Let them wait," Now said without turning his head. "They've built that… thing next to my fortress and won't let anyone in. Acting like they're in charge around here…" He spoke with a sneering grin, clearly displeased with the presence of "those Russians."
Internally, Now was seething. "They won't fool me the way they duped the fleet," he thought as he strode into the corridor to meet his uninvited guests.
When he finally faced the three men in field uniforms, his expression immediately betrayed his annoyance.
"Well, well, gentlemen from Russia," he drawled, "how delightful to welcome you here." His face conveyed everything but actual delight.
The eldest of the Russians, a tall man with a stern yet calm demeanor, extended his hand confidently.
"Good day. I am Major General Alexey Alexandrovich of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation," he introduced himself politely, his tone crisp and professional, though a faint glimmer of irony flickered in his eyes. Now ignored the handshake, instead casting a contemptuous glance at their attire.
"Good heavens, what is that you're wearing? Look, everyone!" He turned to his aides, who flushed red and avoided the Russians' gaze. "This is a disaster. Who even dresses like this?"
"General!" one of his aides whispered urgently, unsure how to rein in his commander. "They can hear you…"
Alexey, maintaining his outward composure, scanned Now from head to toe, his sharp eyes taking in every detail.
"Oh, of course. With an outfit like that, you must be a hit at parades," he remarked with a broad smile that was both charming and cutting. The two senior Russian officers behind him stifled chuckles, their shoulders shaking as they tried to hold it in.
Now snorted, oblivious to the sarcasm, and continued boasting about his fortress.
"No need to worry, gentlemen. My fortress is completely impenetrable. I personally ensured its defenses—against ground assaults or any siege," he declared, puffing out his chest with pride. "There's no need for you to leave your garrison," he added, as though magnanimously excusing his "guests."
Behind him, his aides exchanged hushed whispers, casting uneasy glances at their general.
"He actually said that, didn't he?" one muttered, clenching his teeth anxiously.
"Yes, he did. And you know what? If it weren't for the Russians, the Lourians would've stormed us ages ago…"
Meanwhile, Alexey maintained his composure, nodding politely.
"Thank you for the clarification," he replied evenly. "Would you permit us to station a few of our observers within the fortress?"
"Be my guest," Now said dismissively, waving his hand as if granting a trivial favor.
"Thank you for your hospitality. With your leave, we'll be going," Alexey said, bowing his head slightly and once again extending his hand. But Now had already turned away, signaling his aides to follow him.
As the three Russian officers exited the fortress and walked a few steps down the road, the tension from the encounter finally eased. Boris Leonidovich exhaled, and the other two officers burst into laughter.
"What a pompous clown, dressed like he's heading to a parade," the colonel muttered with a smirk, brushing off his hands as though shaking off the remnants of the meeting.
Alexey grinned, shaking his head.
"In that outfit, he'd be better suited for a circus," he said, chuckling as he climbed into the vehicle and slapped his knee.
Their laughter echoed down the empty street, but as the car doors shut, their expressions quickly returned to seriousness. There were far more pressing matters ahead, and this encounter would leave only a faint mark in their memories.
Thirty kilometers east of Ghim lay a nameless, reclusive, tiny village inhabited by a community of elves. Due to their rare contact with outsiders, news of the war with Louria reached them late. The elven community gathered and set off from their village.
Ten kilometers from their settlement, they encountered no one but wild cows grazing on the plains and birds singing in clusters of trees. The idyllic atmosphere followed the caravan of refugees as they crossed the plains: there were no obstacles, nor any signs of pursuit.
The youngest children were placed at the back of the caravan to be guarded. Only twenty kilometers remained before they would reach the duchy's outpost.
One of the leading elves squinted, scanning the distant dots on the horizon that, as they approached, began to resemble green, self-propelled wagons gleaming in the sunlight. He thought it was a mirage caused by prolonged exposure to the burning sun, even though his straw hat offered little relief. Just then, an unfamiliar rumble—like the hiss of an unknown beast—reached his ears. His gaze shifted skyward, and he saw three wyverns. Strange and sluggish at first glance, but as they came closer, he realized they were anything but. A sudden, piercing cry from a child guarding the rear of the column startled him.
"Lourian riders!"
The elven man spun around, his eyes widening with fear. In the distance—barely three kilometers away—their caravan was being chased by a Lourian cavalry squadron of one hundred lances. In the middle of the refugee caravan, a boy and a girl clutched each other's hands tightly. The boy turned to the girl and said:
"Asha, as Mother and Father instructed us, I'll protect you. Don't be scared. I'm with you."
As the cavalry drew closer, chaos erupted in the caravan. Everyone dropped their belongings and began running toward the green wagons.
Captain Jupiter Jovi of the 15th Cavalry Regiment was a rare breed of scoundrel. Even among the Lourians, his regiment's soldiers were infamous—a ragtag group of thugs, bandits, and pirates recruited during Louria's conquests of smaller neighbors. For their service, they were granted noble status—peers, so to speak, equals to the upper class. Jovi himself was particularly notorious. Out of sheer whimsy, he often killed his comrades simply because he disliked them.
Now, gazing at the prize on the horizon, Jovi licked his lips and murmured in a sultry tone:
"Finally, some entertainment! After days of fruitless searching, such a feast of delicious prey. I can't wait to have my fun with those creatures, in every way imaginable, before slitting their throats."
Back in Gim, the Lourian forces had encountered nothing but ruins—burned wooden houses that posed hidden dangers. Their infantry had suffered inexplicable deaths: poisoned water in wells killed Lourian soldiers in convulsions with foam at their mouths, and sudden booms in ruined homes crushed those scavenging inside. The horrors and agonies of that place had instilled terror in their ranks—a gathering forced together under the threat of the spear. Yet now, the promises of looting, raping, and killing rang sweetly in their ears once more.
The group before them consisted of about fifty elven women, a dozen children, several elderly folk, and barely ten men. They were utterly exposed, awaiting his arrival. Jovi's mind was filled with the darkest, most depraved desires, fueling his euphoria as he stared at the delectable and vulnerable prey.
"Well then, time to hunt! Charge!" Jovi roared, baring his teeth.
The cavalry raised their battle cries and charged at a gallop toward the fleeing elves.
The boy tightened his grip on his younger sister Asha's hand and ran with all his might toward the wagons, out of which strange men in green uniforms holding peculiar staffs were disembarking. His thoughts raced:
"Everything will be fine. Big brother won't let us die. We just have to make it in time!"
An unbidden memory surfaced in the boy's mind—a story his mother had often told, her voice filled with warmth and love.
"Long ago, when nothing else existed, during the era when elves fought against demons, the demons sought to burn the Sacred Forest, home to the patron goddess of the elven people. Many elven warriors perished, and the rest—regardless of age or gender — were slaughtered. The Goddess of Fertility, revered as the creator of the elves, prayed to the Supreme Sun God. In response, the Supreme God sent his apostles to their salvation. Flying ships and iron ground-dragons wielded magic that summoned the thunder of the heavens to incinerate the demons. The demons dwindled in number, and, after suffering a crushing defeat, they retreated to lick their wounds. The elves praised the apostles of the Supreme God, offering them silver, gold, and other treasures for saving their kind. But the apostles refused these gifts, boarding their heavenly ships and departing without taking anything. One of the ships, damaged, fell into the Sacred Forest and remained there to this day, preserved by long-forgotten magic."
His mother had told him this was a true event from five thousand years ago. The boy, whose name was Parun, prayed to the Supreme Sun God:
"Oh, Great Sun God! I beseech you! Save my sister Asha in exchange for my life! I could never forgive myself for her death! I beg you, Great One, don't let her perish before your divine presence!" Tears rolled uncontrollably down Parun's cheeks as he screamed with all the strength in his lungs. His sister echoed his prayers, sniffling as she wept.
At that moment, their prayers to the Supreme God were interrupted by a deafening roar and a rhythmic clattering. Parun and Asha turned to see a massive insect-like creature in the sky. It unleashed streams of light, slicing through the pursuing cavalry as if an invisible barrier had been erected.
"Bzzzzzzzzzzzrrrrrr."
Parun's eyes widened at the mesmerizing sight. He trembled with fear at the screams of agony and the creature's thunderous roar, yet he was filled with hope, grateful that this overwhelming power was turned against their pursuers. Asha, however, vomited and shook uncontrollably.
The helicopter flew over them and unleashed a volley from its 30mm cannon into the clustered cavalry. High-explosive shells tore through the riders, leaving nothing but carnage. Those who were lucky enough to avoid a direct hit were still cut down by shrapnel and shockwaves. A single burst from the 2A42 cannon reduced a third of the band of marauders to a bloody pulp.
Jovi's face turned pale as he screamed:
"SCATTER! That beast targets groups!"
The second helicopter, like a predator hunting its prey, began systematically mowing down the Lourian cavalry. Its weapon fired in long bursts, cutting down the riders like a scythe through grass. It was a horrifying sight: riders fell like felled trees, their bodies torn apart, and blood sprayed into the air. Horses screamed in pain, unable to comprehend the chaos, thrashing wildly in panic.
Amid the chaos, riders cried out for help, their voices filled with despair. Yet there was no reply—only the relentless sound of gunfire and merciless silence. The battlefield was a cacophony of suffering and desperation, driving anyone present to the brink of madness.
Jovi watched helplessly as his cavalry was annihilated without mercy. His heart pounded furiously, his chest tightened with panic.
"What is this?! What sort of devilry is this?! Begone, demon!"
He shouted into the void, his words futile and powerless. He saw the helicopter, like a hunting bird, spitting fire. One moment, a rider was whole; the next, his body was cleaved in two, his horse reeling in confusion before collapsing. The scene was one of utter carnage.
Jovi, concussed, fell from his horse, dazed and disoriented. Blood stained his uniform as his body convulsed with tremors. He gasped for air, choking on his own blood and bile. Tears streamed down his face as despair overwhelmed him. He died in a pool of his own filth, consumed by agony and helplessness.
The cavalry was routed, and the battle was over. Yet the helicopters weren't finished. Two Mi-28 pursued the retreating Lourian soldiers, unleashing volleys of unguided rockets that annihilated any stragglers. Within moments, there were no pursuers left.
Minutes after the destruction subsided, two armored personnel carriers and four trucks arrived at the scene. From them emerged men in green uniforms, wearing protective vests and helmets. They quickly assessed the situation and approached the stunned and terrified group of refugees. A few moments later, a massive Mi-26 helicopter descended from the sky. The elves, paralyzed by fear, could scarcely believe the power that had saved them. They had no idea what had just happened.
A man with a red cross on his sleeve approached and quietly asked:
"Is anyone injured?"
The response was silence. The refugees, petrified, stared at him as though he were a messenger of divine will. It was beyond comprehension. In mere minutes, an entire Lourian cavalry had been obliterated, and now, miraculously, these strangers were offering them salvation.
After a moment, a young elven boy stepped forward with a girl in tow. Hesitantly, he approached the strangers, looked up at them, and said:
"Thank you for saving us from death…" He hesitated briefly before asking, with a touch of innocent hope, "Are you apostles of the Supreme God?"
The medic glanced at the captain, and their expressions softened ever so slightly. With a faint chuckle, the captain replied:
"Call us whatever you want, kid, just don't call us your enemies."
A murmur rippled through the refugees, which quickly turned into quiet conversations. Then, one by one, they began to kneel before these terrifying yet merciful strangers. To them, these soldiers were the embodiment of hope and divine intervention. It was astonishing.
The soldiers, however, kept their emotions in check. Their faces bore the marks of exhaustion, but they understood the gravity of the moment. Soon, the captain issued a firm order:
"We've been sent to evacuate civilians from Qua-Toyne. Get into the helicopter. Those who can't fit, board the trucks."
Yet the elven elder, trembling at the sight of the helicopters, protested weakly:
"We cannot fly aboard these divine vessels. It is too much for us!"
The captain, his patience fraying, barked in a hoarse, commanding voice:
"Get in the transport immediately! That's an order!"
The elves hesitated, but at last, they began boarding the vehicles. It was their only chance for survival, despite their fear of the unknown.