Chapter 20. The Ultimatum of Russia. Part 2.
The Parpaldian Empire. Capital: Esthirant. First Department of Foreign Affairs of His Imperial Majesty.
The grand hall of the First Department, adorned with massive columns and golden emblems of the Empire, radiated an air of authority. The glow of magical chandeliers reflected off the polished marble floor, adding even more gravity to the scene.
At the long table draped in dark red velvet sat Remille. Her cold gaze scanned the guests before her, while her silver hair, elegantly arranged in an intricate bun, shimmered under the lights.
Two diplomats in strict dark suits stood opposite her. They appeared calm, their expressions carved from stone. Their eyes carried a quiet determination, and their posture exuded an air of unwavering confidence.
Remille clasped her hands on the table and leaned forward slightly, the corners of her lips curling into a faint smirk.
— Gentlemen, welcome. — Her voice was soft, yet laced with mockery. — How fascinating. The sovereignty of your... backward nation, — she paused, savoring each word, — is hanging by a thread.
She shook her head slightly, as if feigning regret over her own words.
— Ah, forgive me. That may have sounded a bit... callous, — she added with an insincere smile, followed by a short, biting laugh.
— You were given a list of demands. So, what is your decision?
One of the diplomats, a dark-haired man with a rigidly straight posture, opened his briefcase and pulled out a neatly folded document. He placed it on the table in front of Remille with deliberate slowness.
— This is our government's response, — he stated in a measured, emotionless tone.
Remille narrowed her eyes slightly as she took the papers. Her long, slender fingers carefully unfolded the document. She began reading aloud, her voice growing icier with every word.
— "The immediate withdrawal of military forces from the territory of the Kingdom of Fenn within one week. A formal apology to the government of Fenn and reparations amounting to three hundred million Pasos (approximately 27 billion rubles ($320 million) to be paid to the Fenn treasury. Failure to comply with these terms will result in the Russian Federation, as the protector of the Kingdom of Fenn, reserving the right to..."
Her voice faltered as she reached the critical clause. A spark of rage flashed in her eyes. She threw the papers onto the table as if they were tainted.
— What is the meaning of this?! — she exclaimed, her voice echoing through the hall. — Who do you think you are?!
The Russian diplomat met her furious glare without flinching. His expression remained unchanged, as though he had anticipated this exact reaction.
— If these conditions are not met, — he said, holding her gaze, — the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation will assist your troops in leaving the Kingdom of Fenn's territory.
His words hit like a hammer. A tense silence filled the room, broken only by the sound of Remille's laughter. But it wasn't amusement—it was a sneering, disdainful laugh.
— Hahaha... — Her laughter abruptly ceased, and she spoke slowly, emphasizing every word: — You... savages. You have no idea what it means to be granted His Imperial Majesty's favor. So, you have chosen to declare war on us?
The man tilted his head slightly, his voice unwavering and crisp:
— Yes.
Her face contorted with fury.
— How dare you! Such bold words from insignificant worms like you! We will march onto your pathetic continent and crush every last one of you who dares call themselves Russian!
She shot up from her seat, but the Russian diplomats had already risen as well. Their movements were precise, synchronized, their faces as unreadable as ever.
— That will be enough, — one of them said coldly, his voice sharp as an arctic wind.
Without another word, they turned and left the chamber, not sparing Remille so much as a glance.
As the doors closed behind them, she stood alone in the vast hall. Her fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms.
"These barbarians," she thought, her anger barely contained. "They will regret their insolence. We will show them what it means to challenge the Parpaldian Empire."
Meanwhile, the Russian diplomats exited the palace. Their faces remained expressionless, yet beneath the surface, they felt a quiet satisfaction.
The declaration of war had now given their nation free rein.
To them, Parpaldia was nothing more than another arrogant empire—one that was about to learn what it truly meant to face modern Russia.
A gray haze shrouded the sky over the Eastern Sea. On the horizon, where the sun was slowly rising, painting the waves in shades of gold and crimson, a distant roar of engines could be heard.
The sound grew louder, tearing through the silence of the morning waters.
A squadron of twelve MiG-35s flew in tight formation, approaching the Parpaldian fleet. Their orders were clear and precise: destroy the Empire of Parpaldia's dragon carriers and their escort.
Their targets were already visible on radar—sixteen Lord Wyverns lazily patrolling the sky, twenty dragon carriers, and a dozen escort ships.
The squadron commander received the order:
— Open fire.
Missiles hissed as they detached from their mounts, leaving behind thin, smoky trails that quickly faded into the air.
The enemy had no time to react.
Explosions erupted one after another, sending debris and flames soaring into the sky. The dragon carriers ignited like paper toys, leaving behind nothing but burning wrecks drifting aimlessly on the water.
Panic spread among the Parpaldian crews. Sailors rushed across the decks, screaming in terror. Their desperate attempts to mount a defense only led to further chaos. One by one, the ships vanished into clouds of fire and smoke.
The Lord Wyvern riders barely had time to grasp what was happening. But their beasts, accustomed to magic and lances, were utterly powerless against weapons they couldn't see or stop.
In mere minutes, the entire Parpaldian fleet had been reduced to a chaotic mess of wreckage, flames, and corpses.
Meanwhile, on the shores of Nishinomiyako, the situation was no less intense.
From the province to the Coate Plains, fierce battles raged on.
Here, among the ruins of buildings and scorched fields, two forces clashed: the Parpaldian Marine Corps and the Fennian troops, backed by Russian volunteers. Explosions echoed everywhere—artillery shells rained down on the city's outskirts, while the sharp cracks of magical arquebuses mixed with the relentless bursts of automatic fire.
The stench of war clung to everything—the acrid smell of smoke, gunpowder, blood, and sweat filled the air, creating a nauseating cocktail that was impossible to ignore.
The Parpaldians, desperate to capture the city, launched attack after attack. But their forces were either obliterated before they even reached their targets or cut down in the city streets.
The Fennian fighters and Russian mercenaries held the line—exhausted, but unbroken. Their losses were heavy—eight hundred dead, thirteen wounded—but they stood their ground.
For the Kingdom of Fenn, which had never participated in large-scale wars before, this was a disaster.
Parpaldia's losses were far greater—over two thousand dead, three hundred wounded, and twenty-four missing.
Yet, despite the mounting casualties, the Empire's command refused to retreat.
Lieutenant General Dolbo, acting under new orders, advanced with a three-thousand-strong Marine Legion and thirty-two land dragons, maneuvering around the mountain range.
Their mission: reach the Coate Plains and encircle Nishinomiyako.
On the march, the legion stumbled upon a small Fennian village.
The commanders ordered an assault and plundering to boost the soldiers' morale. The troops were given free rein—to loot, to destroy, to terrorize the villagers. For the Parpaldians, this was routine—a reward for their efforts.
But this village held a nasty surprise.
As the first squads stormed the homes, explosions erupted one after another.
The buildings, rigged with traps, collapsed in a cascade of fire and debris, burying dozens of soldiers beneath the rubble.
Nearly a hundred men were killed instantly. Many more were wounded.
The screams of the injured echoed through the night and into the morning.
Shaken by the carnage, the remaining soldiers pressed on, but their spirits were crushed.
Exhausted and demoralized, they could barely drag their feet forward.
General Dolbo watched his army with growing unease.
Their morale was shattered. Their fighting spirit—extinguished.
Yet, he knew retreat was not an option.
The orders were clear—surround the city and end this battle, no matter the cost.
"Berkut to Gnezdo (Nest)," a sniper whispered into his radio, lying low among the grass and bushes in his ghillie suit.
The leaves rustled in the light morning breeze, masking his presence in the undergrowth.
"Enemy unit sighted. Moving northwest toward the Coate Plains. Counting three thousand soldiers, artillery, and land dragons. Do you copy?"
A steady voice responded through the earpiece:
"Gnezdo to Berkut (Golden Eagle). Copy that. Relocate and provide targeting coordinates. Do you read?"
The sniper wasted no time in responding:
"Copy, Gnezdo.
He lifted his gaze to his partner, gave a slight nod, and began carefully packing the equipment into his raider backpack. His partner covered him, remaining motionless, eyes locked on the approaching enemy. Both knew that every minute counted.
Lieutenant General Dolbo awoke, turning heavily on the rough wooden planks of his field bed. His face was gaunt, with deep shadows under his eyes. He felt exhausted, as if he hadn't slept at all. Once again, nightmares of his army perishing in fire and blood had wrenched him from sleep's embrace.
Each new morning only brought more worries. With every march, the soldiers' morale sank lower, and the situation grew darker.
By noon, the legion had reached the Coate Plains.
The plain was a bleak, lifeless expanse stretching between Nishinomiyako and Amanoki. The sun-scorched land was barren, cracked, and sparsely dotted with shrubs. No human had set foot here for ages, and the only sound was the whispering wind chasing dust across the ground.
The lieutenant general ordered his troops into formation. The legion split into two detachments: one to encircle Nishinomiyako, the other to advance toward the capital of the Kingdom of Fenn.
Dolbo rode along the line on horseback, holding an unusual timepiece in his hands. It had been brought back by a prize crew after the coastal assault. He turned it over, examining the slim, elegant mechanism designed to be worn on the wrist. He had been told that these belonged to a Russian soldier, and the thought sent a chill of fear through him.
He had never seen anything like it. The watch was simple yet so refined. Its precision and craftsmanship seemed to embody a level of technology that Parpaldia couldn't even begin to imagine.
Dolbo's thoughts spiraled. What other monstrous weapons did these Russians possess? How advanced was their arsenal?
His mind drifted to a recent memory—how he had once admired his friend the Duke's pocket watch, massive as a cupboard and worth a fortune. But it seemed primitive compared to this small, nearly weightless object.
These thoughts burdened him. Fear of defeat mixed with the yearning to abandon everything and return home to his family. Yet he knew that fleeing would bring brutal retribution upon him and his loved ones.
A sharp cry shattered his thoughts.
— Air raid! Take cover! — a desperate officer's voice rang out.
The general snapped his head up. A dot had appeared in the vast, clear sky, rapidly approaching.
A cold dread spread through his body. The dot grew larger with every second, transforming into a metallic behemoth glinting in the sunlight.
— Iron dragon… — someone whispered among the soldiers.
The roar of engines drowned out everything else. A deafening, piercing rumble rolled across the plain. Then, the first explosion.
A colossal wave of fire and smoke engulfed the ranks of soldiers.
— This is the end! — someone screamed before their voice was lost in the chaos of detonations.
Lieutenant General Dolbo, huddled in a hastily dug trench, could not tear his eyes away from the devastation. Strike after strike. The monstrous machine methodically obliterated his legion. Soldiers were torn apart in crimson mist, their bodies reduced to mere scraps of flesh.
The cries of the wounded, the sobs, the howls of terror filled the air. Those still alive desperately clawed at the earth, trying to burrow away from the metallic predator above.
The Coate Plains had become a slaughterhouse.
Dolbo, covered in dust and blood, slowly peered out of his cover. His hands trembled, his heart clenched with the realization of total annihilation.
BZZZZ-BZZ-BZ-BRRR!
The sky shuddered with the roar of an approaching Su-59. The combat aircraft descended relentlessly, a winged shadow of death, unleashing relentless bursts from its twin GSh-6-30 cannons. The ground shook under the thunderous explosions, which tore through Parpaldian soldiers, turning them into bloody clouds and leaving only scattered remains behind.
High-explosive incendiary rounds, like the merciless fists of fate, shredded flesh, crushed fortified shelters, and even felled the mighty land dragons—the legionaries' steadfast war beasts. The reptiles let out guttural moans, collapsing like fallen giants, their bodies scorched, smoking, and torn apart, reduced to bloodied remnants.
In that moment, everything became clear: resistance was futile. But to the west, beyond a small hill, new figures were emerging. Massive, formidable, like the embodiment of sheer power—Russian tanks began their slow yet unstoppable march toward the weakened Parpaldian forces.
— General! General! — a desperate voice cut through the battlefield chaos. Yosh, a young officer, shook Dolbo by the shoulders. — We can't hold out any longer! The soldiers are huddling together like sheep waiting for a shepherd! If we don't surrender, they'll wipe us out! The land dragons are gone—nothing can save us from these machines!
Dolbo, an older man with graying hair and a weary face, stared blankly ahead. He seemed lost, as if his mind had drifted far from the blood and smoke that saturated the air. Yosh kept shouting, gesturing wildly, but his words reached the general through a thick haze.
— General Dolbo, we must surrender to the victors! — Yosh's voice wavered, more desperate than resolute.
— They'll execute us anyway, — Dolbo finally replied, his eyes refocusing on the young officer. — We attacked their city. They won't forgive us.
— General, if we don't surrender, no one will survive! At least now, there's a chance to save a few dozen men!
Yosh spoke, trying to conceal his fear. But he was terrified. Terrified they would be executed even after surrendering, terrified that they had already witnessed their end. Yet, a sliver of hope still flickered within him.
The general exhaled heavily, as if resigning himself not just to Yosh's plea, but to the reality that he could do nothing more.
— Yosh… you're right. Raise the surrender flag.
Yosh began waving the inverted flag, following standard wartime protocol.
— 7-4, 7-4. Prepare to fire at will, — a voice crackled through the radio, cold and detached, as if spoken not by a human but by war itself.
The gunner lifted his head from the sight and glanced at the approaching soldiers. Their movements were chaotic, some clearly in panic, but one figure stood out—waving a white flag.
"Comrade commander, it looks like they're surrendering," the voice carried a note of disbelief, as if the speaker himself couldn't believe what he was saying.
The commander of the armored vehicle, a man with a stony expression, peered through his monocular. The enemy was close, about 120 meters away. The Parpaldian flag was clearly visible, their weapons neatly stacked in a small pile.
"Topaz, this is Iva. I have eyes on the enemy. Inverted Parpaldian flag, weapons stacked. Do you copy?"
The response came almost instantly:
"This is Topaz. Copy that. Proceed according to protocol."
The commander switched to the loudspeaker:
"Attention! Form a line and move toward the hill with your hands raised! Any resistance will be met with deadly force! I repeat, proceed to the hill with your hands up!"
The Parpaldian soldiers hesitantly began moving forward. Their steps were uncertain, as if each of them feared that the slightest misstep would be their last. Their formation stretched across the scorched earth, a shadow of an army that no longer existed.
As the Parpaldians drew closer, Russian motorized infantry moved with precision and efficiency. The captives were forced to their knees, searched, and had their hands tied behind their backs. Those who tried to resist were silenced quickly and without unnecessary words. One such man was struck hard with a rifle butt, his face sinking into the dirt.
"Anyone else want to argue?" one of the Russian soldiers asked loudly, but there was no response. The rest of the prisoners remained silent, their heads lowered.
The captured soldiers were loaded onto trucks. Their path was clear: prisoner-of-war camps, followed by hard labor somewhere in the Kingdom of Quilla. They were no longer warriors—just remnants of what was once a proud army.
Meanwhile, the Russian forces reorganized into columns. The commanders received new orders, and the troops began their march toward Nishinomiyako. There were still pockets of resistance there, but they wouldn't last much longer.
The cleanup in Nishinomiyako had begun. Rocket artillery systems worked in perfect unison, methodically turning enemy fortifications into smoking craters. Any place that might have sheltered surviving Parpaldians was reduced to rubble.
Stragglers who tried to fight back were quickly "controlled." Russian special forces were handling their tasks—evacuating equipment, recovering stealth infantry, and retrieving the bodies of fallen Russian mercenaries. Zinc coffins carrying their remains were carefully loaded onto trucks, ensuring their return home.
"General Sius…" A manacom operator cautiously approached.
The general's face was twisted with rage. The red lines on the map, marking strategic directions, looked more like gaping wounds.
"Idiots! Victory was in our hands! Ours!" His voice echoed through the room as he slammed his fist onto the table, making the wooden surface tremble. "How could they screw this up so badly?!"
The manacom operator, a young man with a nervous expression, hesitated before stepping a little closer. He knew that the words he was about to speak would only fuel the general's fury.
"What else do you have to report?" Sius growled without even looking at him.
"Twelve enemy ships are approaching from the southwest, General," the operator exhaled, struggling to keep his voice steady.
Sius turned sharply, raising an eyebrow.
"Twelve? You're joking, right? We have one hundred and eighty-three ships. They don't even pose a threat!"
"Twelve ships against our one hundred and eighty-three?" Sius arched an eyebrow in surprise. "Did I hear that right?"
"No mistake, sir…"