Chapter 20. The Ultimatum of Russia. Part 1.
Kingdom of Altaras. Royal Capital, Le-Brias. Underground Resistance Command Headquarters.
The Kingdom of Altaras, home to fifteen million people, once shone on the continent's map like a precious gem in the crown of an ancient civilization. A land rich in cultural heritage, natural resources, and magical energy, it had long been admired by its neighbors and coveted by would-be conquerors. Now, shrouded in smoke and soaked in blood, it had become just another pitiful trophy for the insatiable Parpaldian Empire.
The capital, Le-Brias, once filled with light, music, and the scent of blooming flowers, now resembled a lifeless grave. Bustling markets had given way to empty streets, where soldiers in red-and-black uniforms patrolled with heavy steps that echoed through the hollow ruins. The city's citizens—who had once carried themselves with pride—now avoided each other's gaze, fearing betrayal, fearing a whisper in the wrong ear.
At the heart of the city, in the half-ruined basement of an old house, lay the headquarters of the underground resistance. The walls here seemed to remember every battle, every conspiracy, every oath spoken in the shadows.
A dim lamp cast its feeble glow over the room, illuminating the weary faces of those gathered. Dark circles shadowed their eyes, but their resolve remained unshaken. They spoke in hushed tones, discussing sabotage plans, supply line disruptions, and the desperate search for allies.
Altaras's roots ran deep. It was a fragment of the ancient High Elven kingdom of Al-Tara, which had fallen in a brutal war against the demonic legions of Nosgorath. Its land—crisscrossed by rivers and shrouded in dense forests—had always been a prize worth fighting for. The Parpaldian Empire saw Altaras not just as a land of riches but as a gateway to strategic dominance. The magical ores and crystals hidden beneath its soil promised decades of uncontested supremacy.
When the Parpaldian Empire issued its demands to King Taara XIV, the blow was as sudden as it was ruthless. The kingdom's most valuable magic stone mine, along with his only daughter—Princess Lumies—were to be surrendered as the price for peace. At first, it seemed like a grotesque joke. But the Empire's envoy, standing before the king, was cold and unflinching, delivering his nation's terms as if stating self-evident truths.
Taara XIV, an aging monarch with a proud posture and a keen mind, refused to believe that his country had been backed into such a corner. He tried to reason with them—offering negotiations, compensations, diplomatic settlements. But Parpaldia had already made up its mind.
When the king declared a general mobilization, he knew he was calling for a war they could not win. His people—peasants, militia, anyone who could hold a weapon—rallied under Altaras's banners. But their efforts were in vain. Parpaldia, like a serpent, slowly tightened its coils around the kingdom.
The treaty signed by Taara XIV under the threat of annihilation marked the beginning of the end. His hand trembled as he scrawled his name across the parchment. Each heartbeat reminded him that he was failing his people.
From the moment the ink dried, peace became nothing but an illusion. The Empire, once claiming to be Altaras's protector, had become its executioner. The soldiers who had initially upheld order soon turned into predators. They plundered homes, assaulted women, and stole children—enslaving them under the Empire's banner. The red-and-black uniforms became synonymous with terror. Every night, occupied cities were set ablaze, screams of horror echoing into the darkness.
And yet, even in this nightmare, hope refused to die.
Beyond the Empire's reach—deep in the forests and mountains—resistance forces began to rise. Men and women, young and old, fought for their right to live. Their weapons were crude—swords, bows, even pitchforks—but their determination burned brighter than any fire.
For those in the resistance, there were no compromises. Their enemies deserved no mercy. Each red-and-black uniform represented a broken family, a burned home, a stolen life.
This was not just a battle for independence. It was a war for humanity itself—to ensure that the evil embodied by Parpaldia would never prevail.
Under the damp, mildew-infested vaults of the basement, a tense flurry of activity filled the air. The thick scent of burnt oil, wet earth, and a mixture of anxiety and determination clung to every surface. Officers in crumpled, stained uniforms rushed between roughly assembled tables, cross-checking maps, shuffling papers, and whispering among themselves, careful not to disrupt the one person who mattered most here—the one they simply called Commander.
The dim glow of magical lamps barely cut through the gloom, casting jagged shadows across the worn faces of those gathered. The walls of the basement were lined with detailed maps of Le-Brias, each one marred with red and blue lines, black markings, and sweeping arrows that told the brutal story of countless battles.
Commander stood hunched over one of the maps. His gloved fingers moved across the rough parchment, repositioning small wooden figures that represented the enemy's positions. Every movement was precise, punctuated by barely audible curses—quiet, but expressive enough for those around him to understand his frustration. Somewhere above, in the distance, the ground trembled with the distant echoes of explosions. The Parpaldian Empire's magical artillery was mercilessly pounding the city.
— Commander, — a sharp voice cracked through the air like a whip, making everyone in the room snap to attention. A young officer stood before him, his face smudged with dust and soot, his eyes weary but holding a flicker of something rare—hope.
— Report, — Commander didn't even look up, still focused on the map.
— Message from the manacom operator, — the officer took a sharp breath, as if bracing himself before delivering the news.
For a brief moment, Commander's hands froze. His gloved fingers halted over the wooden figures. Slowly, he lifted his head, meeting the officer's gaze.
— Read it.
— The Kingdom of Fenn, with support from the Russian Federation, has declared war on the Parpaldian Empire, — the officer announced, his voice carrying through the room like a thunderclap.
For a few heartbeats, the basement was silent. The officer's words cut through the air like daggers, piercing the minds of everyone present. A few men, previously hunched over their maps, stopped moving entirely, their eyes wide with disbelief.
— Russia? — Commander repeated, his voice laced with skepticism, as if he couldn't quite trust his own ears. His usually cold and calculating gaze now carried something else—shock. — Are you certain? Did they send anything else?
— Yes, sir, — the officer nodded, his face betraying a glimmer of cautious optimism. — "Prospekt" is en route, and they've given the green light.
For several seconds, Commander said nothing. His mind raced, processing what this meant. In his eyes, a long-buried emotion flickered—an emotion he had ruthlessly suppressed for months. Hope. But hope was a dangerous thing. A single misstep, a single misplaced belief, could spell disaster.
— Relay the order to Karoul and Avral: Initiate "Liberation." Everyone must be prepared for battle, — his voice rang out, sharp and unwavering, like the strike of a war hammer against steel.
—Yes, sir! — the officer snapped a salute before turning and bolting out of the room.
Silence settled once more over the basement, but this time, it was different—charged, expectant. The air felt thick with an unseen force. Eyes met across the room, whispers spread like wildfire. This news was a spark—a flicker of fire in the long, cold dark.
Commander stood still, his gaze fixed on the map before him, but his mind was already elsewhere. The enigmatic allies from the shadows—those "unclear individuals" who had approached him in secrecy—had spoken of this moment. Their faces had been hidden behind heavy masks, their words deliberate and calculated. They had informed him that King Taara XIV and Princess Lumies were alive and safe. More than that, they had claimed to represent the Russian Federation, promising their full backing for the resistance.
Their claims had coincided with the sudden disappearance of the royal family and the assassination of Parpaldia's governor, Shok—an act that had unleashed a wave of brutal crackdowns across Altaras. The empire's forces had become more savage, more desperate, lashing out with the fury of a cornered beast.
But today, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, fear was no longer the dominant emotion in the room. Something else had taken its place—resolve.
Commander felt his heart beating harder in his chest. The corner of his mouth twitched into the faintest ghost of a smirk. Finally. No more hiding in basements like rats. No more desperate, losing battles. For the first time, they had a real chance to win.
He leaned over the map once more, but now his gaze was steady, his movements sure.
The war was far from over.
And this time, they would not be the ones retreating.
The Second Civilized Zone. The Superpower of Mu.
The government of Mu, known for its cautious diplomacy and commitment to maintaining balance, now faced a difficult choice. A conflict was brewing on the horizon, with two great powers at its center—the Parpaldian Empire and the Russian Federation. The decision to send a military observer was both necessary and highly risky.
On the one hand, an observer could provide valuable intelligence on the course of the war, strengthening Mu's position on the international stage. But on the other, one side would inevitably lose, and if Mu aligned itself incorrectly, the fate of the observer would be far from enviable.
In the dimly lit Council Hall, where tense silence filled the air, the highest-ranking members of the government and military lobby had gathered. Magical crystals illuminated the chamber, casting flickering light onto the stern faces of those present.
— Gentlemen! — The head diplomat of Mu, a middle-aged man with a sharp gaze and streaks of gray at his temples, stepped forward. — We have reviewed the reports from our diplomats stationed in the Russian Federation. I firmly believe that our observer should be sent there.
His voice carried unwavering confidence as he tilted his head slightly, awaiting a reaction.
— Clarify your position, if you will, — a representative of the military lobby rose from his seat. A tall, imposing man with a hardened expression, he spoke in a measured, authoritative tone. — On what grounds do you base this conclusion?
— The answer is simple, — the diplomat adjusted his cuffs and continued. — The Russian Federation demonstrates a level of scientific and technological advancement that surpasses our own by at least a century—possibly two. It is imperative that we understand how they have achieved such progress if we are to keep pace.
Murmurs spread across the hall.
— That sounds like speculation, — another military representative remarked. — Has anyone among us witnessed this so-called superiority firsthand? Do we have tangible proof, or is this just misinformation?
— Our reports have been corroborated by multiple independent sources, — the diplomat sighed, exasperated. — You've seen the intelligence yourselves, gentlemen. Haven't your own agents confirmed the same findings?
— They have, — admitted one of the generals, an older man with a chest full of medals. — But the reports, to put it mildly, sound unbelievable. They claim that Russia seamlessly integrates magic and technology in ways beyond our comprehension.
— Which is precisely why we must send an observer, — the diplomat stated firmly. — This isn't just about the current conflict—it's about the future. If we fail to understand their capabilities, we risk being left behind in history.
After long hours of debate, the Council reached a decision.
An observer would be sent to the Russian Federation.
The Holy Mirishial Empire.
The port city of Cartalpas, the beating heart of the Holy Mirishial Empire, was cloaked in the cool mist of evening. The harbor, steeped in the scent of salt and fish, buzzed with the voices of sailors and merchants. But the liveliest spot at this hour was a bar tucked away on one of the side streets.
The old wooden building, with its weathered sign reading "The Sea Hawk", glowed with warm light from within. Inside, rough oak tables were surrounded by a mix of people: sailors, soldiers, traders, and mercenaries. Here, the latest news and rumors were swapped, often mingling with the fumes of strong local rum.
"Heard the latest, boys?" began one of the sailors, a tall man with a thick beard that reeked of booze. "Parpaldia's gone and started another war! This time they're fighting some nations from Beyond the Civilized Lands."
"Hic," his companion replied with a chuckle. "Those savages? Shame, sure, but what can you say? Parpaldia's just doing what Parpaldia does."
"But haven't you ever thought they might just be out to snatch up more land?" cut in a third man, who looked more sober than the rest. "Seems to me they're waging war just for the sake of it. The Empire's already gobbled up most of the Third Civilized Zone, and now they're aiming for the rest."
"That's the way of the strong," the first sailor mused philosophically. "The weak fade away, and the powerful take what they want."
"Ha! The strong?" his tipsy friend snorted. "Parpaldia's biting off more than it can chew. What if those countries in the alliance turn out to be tougher than they think?"
"Oh, come off it," the bearded one waved him off. "You seriously think anyone from Beyond the Civilized Lands could stand up to the Empire?"
"Who knows," the sober man shrugged. "Word is, one of those nations, Russia, has technology we can't even dream of."
"Fairy tales for kids!" the bearded sailor scoffed, tossing back another mug.
The chatter in the bar rolled on, growing louder and more spirited. Most of the patrons agreed on one thing: Parpaldia, for all its ambitions, would come out on top.
The Parpaldia Empire. The Capital, Esthirant. The Imperial Palace. Emperor Ludius's Chambers.
Emperor Ludius, a young man with a piercing gaze and ash-gray hair, sat in his spacious chambers, adorned with exquisite tapestries and golden statues. A faint scent of incense lingered in the air, lending the room an aura of majestic severity. On his lap rested Remille, a woman with silver hair, dressed in an elegant gown with a plunging neckline. Ludius gently stroked her hair, though his face remained serene and cold, as if carved from stone.
"Remille, what do you think of our empire and this world?" His voice was soft, yet it carried an undercurrent of menace.
Remille lifted her head and met his gaze, where shadows of ambition flickered.
"Your Imperial Majesty," her voice trembled, though she fought to conceal it, "as long as the barbarians keep wallowing in their filth, our great empire rises above them, giving their pitiful existence a purpose. For those wretches, it's the highest honor. And fear…" She paused, as if choosing her words with care, "fear is the perfect tool to herd this flock."
Ludius smiled slowly, his lips curving into a thin line of satisfaction.
"Well said, Remille," he murmured gently. "Exactly so. We guide these herds toward a better future. It's our duty. It's our path. As my father decreed, the world must be brought to harmony through us. The Holy Mirishial Empire and Mu are too soft. Their compromises with those insects degrade them."
He leaned closer, his eyes glinting.
"But Parpaldia won't repeat their mistakes. We'll conquer the entire Third World and become a truly great empire. No, an eternal empire. And one day, our descendants will reach the Second World, even the Central World. We'll unite them all, end the wars, and establish true order. Do you grasp, Remille, the mission we're fulfilling?"
The emperor's words rang with solemnity, yet they brimmed with ruthless resolve.
Remille shivered but tried to steady herself. Her eyes welled with tears, though she knew she had to stay strong.
"Yes, Your Imperial Majesty," she whispered, her voice quaking. "You're so magnanimous. Your compassion for these… barbarians… touches my heart."
Her breath faltered, her voice trembling as if weighed down by thoughts she dared not voice.
Ludius straightened, his expression turning stern once more.
"Great causes always demand sacrifices," he said, cutting through her doubts like a blade. "Those who stand in our way must be crushed."
Remille nodded submissively, her gaze filled with reverence.
"You're absolutely right, Your Imperial Majesty."
"Now tell me, what's the situation with the Kingdom of Fenn and Russia? What are the results?"
Remille tensed, her face darkening.
"As you commanded, Nishinomiyako has been seized. The barbarians are putting up resistance, though it's feeble. General Sius has secured a foothold, and their forces are retreating toward Amanoki."
Ludius frowned at her, his fingers pausing in her hair.
"You're holding something back, Remille," he said quietly, a hint of threat lacing his tone.
She opened her mouth to respond, but just then, the bracelet on her wrist—encrusted with a magical crystal—flashed with bright light. Remille stiffened, her face twisting in annoyance.
"Your Imperial Majesty, forgive me…"
Ludius nodded, releasing her.
"It's fine. Answer it."
She activated the bracelet, and a voice crackled through, slightly distorted by the magical connection.
"Your Imperial Highness, the Russian diplomats have requested an urgent meeting."
Remille's brow furrowed, her gaze growing even colder.
"Splendid," she replied dryly. "Prepare the First Division."
She deactivated the bracelet and rose, bowing to the emperor.
"I'll handle this matter at once, Your Imperial Majesty."
Ludius gave a curt nod, dismissing her.
Remille strode confidently toward the exit, but her mind churned with questions. What could those barbarians possibly have to offer?