Chapter 22. An unexpected surprise.
The Parpaldia Empire. The Majestic Capital of Esthirant. The Imperial Palace.
The grand Imperial Palace stood proudly above the sprawling capital of the Parpaldia Empire—Esthirant—like a colossal stone beast. Its massive walls, crafted from rough, gray stone, appeared eternal and unbreakable, as if hinting at the unshakable might of the empire. Perched atop the palace roofs, like ominous black birds, were cast-iron cannons with long barrels, poised to unleash their devastating power upon any enemy at a moment's notice. Above the palace fluttered the imperial red banner with gold embroidery on the edges, adorned with the image of two land dragons, their crossed forms breathing fire, a vivid symbol of the Empire's strength. Esthirant itself was a chaotic tapestry of narrow alleys and broad avenues. At the city's heart rose majestic buildings of pale stone, their columns and porticos proclaiming the power and grandeur of the empire. The homes of the nobility boasted balconies with wrought-iron railings and stone statues, while cast-iron fences crowned their rooftops. Along the streets stood manufactories and blacksmith workshops, their air filled with the clang of hammers and the hum of machinery, while the scent of coal and iron lingered overhead. On the squares near municipal buildings, trade bustled as merchants hawked their wares, and common folk—mostly clad in simple, canvas garments—hurried about their daily tasks. Horse-drawn carts and aristocratic carriages rolled ceaselessly over the cobblestone streets. Beyond the city limits, fields and farms stretched into the distance, sustaining the urban population. At Esthirant's port, nestled on the edge of a vast sea, sailing ships and frigates arrived constantly, laden with goods. Though chaotic, the city pulsed with energy and life, yet it bore the ever-present shadow of the empire's might, which kept everything firmly under its grip.
Long ago, this place was but a humble kingdom on the southern fringe of the vast Philades continent, known as the Palneus Kingdom. A small, unremarkable realm, it stood out little from the other kingdoms of the region. No one in those distant days could have imagined that the modest Palneus Kingdom would shed its name and rise as the formidable Parpaldia Empire, its armies marching across the continent, conquering and enslaving entire nations. The Palneus Kingdom, like a hidden treasure trove, sat atop rich deposits of magical crystals and ores, drawing the greedy eyes of neighboring tribes like a magnet. Endless wars and bloody border skirmishes forged the kingdom's first ruler into a hardened leader, driving him to a desperate act: he poured every last coin of the treasury into building a mighty, disciplined, and ruthless army. With each blood-soaked battle, the war machine's growth accelerated at an unstoppable pace, like a giant flywheel gaining momentum.
In just a hundred years, the Palneus Kingdom, as if crossing an invisible threshold, achieved an unimaginable leap in technology and magic. From a medieval era to one rivaling the early nineteenth century, their arsenals brimmed with smoothbore muskets, cavalry pistols, and heavy cannons, alongside new breeds of wyverns—lord wyverns—ready to rain fiery destruction upon their foes. It took another ninety relentless years to subdue over twenty fragmented kingdoms with unyielding brutality, finally proclaiming itself the mighty Parpaldia Empire. Victory after victory left nobles and commoners alike in awe, and the first young emperor was crowned, his name now spoken with reverence and fear. Yet, like a ravenous beast, the empire's vast military expenditures began dragging it downward, a deadweight tethered to a sinking ship. The solution was clear, though merciless—relentless expansion. But expansion across the Philades continent proved a costly and exhausting quagmire, like sinking into quicksand. Each new invasion struck the depleted treasury like a sledgehammer, demanding immense resources for brutal occupations. This vicious cycle of plunder and conquest, like a curse, only fueled an ever-growing hunger for more land and wealth.
Within a mere decade, the Parpaldia Empire, like a sprawling octopus, controlled a vast domain encompassing seventy-two vassal states, their people groaning under the yoke of their conquerors. Its inclusion in the Eleven Superpowers, like a seal on parchment, cemented Parpaldia's status as a superpower of the Third Civilized Region
The throne, rising majestically above the floor, was carved from a single piece of pitch-black wood and adorned with golden inlays and rubies, whose facets flared with every movement of the emperor. His youthful—for an imperial ruler—piercing gaze seemed sharp and penetrating, like a blade slicing through the darkness, yet it was filled with the ambition and determination characteristic of a young sovereign hungering for glory and power. Upon it sat Emperor Ludius I himself. His young, yet piercing gaze appeared sharp and penetrating, like a blade slicing through the darkness. The emperor was clad in a ceremonial uniform, tailored from red-and-black velvet, which clung tightly to his youthful, slender frame.
"Your Imperial Majesty," came a gentle yet firm voice, and an ash-silver figure, like a shadow, glided silently into the hall, bowing gracefully in a deep, respectful curtsy.
"Remille, greetings," the emperor said, gesturing toward a plush velvet sofa positioned across from the throne. With a casual flick of his hand, he slid a bottle of wine closer to himself, as though this mundane gesture encapsulated all his authority. At that very moment, from the far end of the hall, a servant hurried toward him, as if summoned by an invisible cue, clutching a delicate napkin. "What tidings do you bring me today?"
Remille, her face as though chiseled from the hardest alabaster, sank onto the soft cushions with unwavering grace, the pillows seeming to yield beneath her weight. She allowed no trace of unease to surface, though within her, her heart pounded fiercely, like a coiled spring ready to snap free at any moment.
"Your Imperial Majesty, the royal family of Altaras, like stubborn weeds, has managed to survive and slip through our trap. They've found refuge in… Russia, that distant, barbaric land, and there they've proclaimed the formation of a provisional government, like pitiful gnats trying to defy a hurricane," Remille said with disdain.
"We intercepted their magical broadcast, laced with the poison of rebellion, which has sparked unrest and uprisings in the vassal territories, like a wildfire poised to engulf the entire empire," she paused, as if weighing each word carefully.
"If we allow these barbarians to continue sowing discord, this abscess of rebellion, like a cancerous tumor, will swell to unimaginable proportions, devouring our empire from within. With your permission, we've launched Operation Purge. We will eradicate this blight, uproot it entirely, and consign all mention of the Russian nation to the flames of oblivion. The Parpaldian Empire has never known defeat, nor shall it ever, and history will bear not even the faintest whisper of this barbaric, insignificant land," Remille's voice rang steady and assured, though her eyes blazed with the fire of merciless resolve. Like a proud warrior, she stood ready to carry out any command the emperor might give.
"Commendable, commendable," a smile, like the bared fangs of a predator, flickered across the emperor's lips, revealing the even, yellowish tint of his teeth.
"You've done well, Remille. These untested barbarians must be dealt with in this way and no other. They dare to mock our great empire, and for that, they must be crushed without mercy. Let it be a brutal, bloody lesson to all: what befalls those who dare challenge me, Ludius the First of Parpaldia," he said, filling their goblets with a deep burgundy wine that glimmered in the light, like blood, and handed one to Remille.
For a while longer, they conversed at a leisurely pace, discussing matters of imperial governance and strategies to quell the revolts. Every word the emperor spoke carried his unshakable confidence in his might and his right to absolute dominion, while Remille, her eyes brimming with impatience and cruelty, listened intently, like a loyal disciple absorbing every syllable, all the while striving to conceal her hatred.
When their discussion concluded, Remille, her eyes ablaze with impatience and cruelty, departed the imperial palace and made her way to the First Division. At the entrance, a clerk, his voice trembling with agitation, informed her that Russian diplomats awaited her in the hall—their arrival, like their audacity, utterly unjustified. With each step, the muscles of her lithe legs grew heavy, as if filled with lead, and her jaw clenched so tightly it seemed it might shatter bone. What unthinkable insolence! To come here, to the very heart of the empire, after all they had done, daring to defy Parpaldia's might! She could scarcely believe that the imperial army, this invincible war machine, could be defeated by such pathetic barbarians from lands that seemed to lie at the edge of the world. Suppressing a strange fear tinged with curiosity at this unfamiliar, brazen defiance, Remille, her face like carved stone, slowly opened the door to the hall. There she saw two diplomats, their faces—surprisingly—vaguely familiar. It took immense effort to maintain her mocking, haughty expression, masking the storm of emotions raging within her soul. In that moment, she silently vowed to devote all her strength to annihilating these insolent intruders.
The Parpaldian Empire. The capital, Esthirant.
The First Division of His Imperial Majesty's Foreign Affairs. The Council Chamber.
"Greetings, Remille, we meet again," said a man in an impeccable, crisp black suit, clean-shaven, with a cold, piercing gaze. He spoke as the unspoken leader, his words laced with a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, as if he possessed knowledge beyond her reach.
"You're aware, I presume, of the events that transpired in the Kingdom of Fenn? What of the demands put forth by our government? What pitiful pleas have you brought us today?"
"Nothing… as always, we refuse," Remille's voice was icy and sharp, like a razor's edge. Within her heart, she harbored a hatred that churned like lava in the maw of an awakening volcano, ready at any moment to erupt and incinerate everything in its path.
"Your vile, treacherous actions have sparked rebellion in our vassal territories, like poisonous seeds sprouting in fertile soil. You offered them aid in gaining sovereignty, thereby incurring the wrath of His Imperial Majesty. You gravely underestimate the might of a recognized superpower, the Parpaldian Empire, whose armies know no defeat, whose frigates rule the seas, and whose cannons obliterate our foes! Tell your government: they are far from untouchable, and their fate is sealed. What a foolish notion! His Imperial Majesty has authorized Purge, and neither you nor any of those barbarians standing behind you will escape his fury! We will burn your country to ashes and march across it, leaving not a single trace of your existence," Remille spat, clenching her fists in hatred, ready to lunge at these insolent fools and tear them apart.
"Forgive me, am I understanding you correctly?" the diplomat replied, his face an unyielding mask of stone. He raised an eyebrow calmly, questioningly, as if Remille's words had no effect on him whatsoever, and he was merely listening politely to her tirade. He regarded her with a strange, cold curiosity, like someone examining an odd insect trapped in a jar.
"It is exactly as I said. No hidden meanings," Remille's voice remained steady, though notes of barely concealed fury slipped into her tone, her emotions now beyond her control.
"Rejoice and thank the gods that I'm feeling merciful today, and that you won't die here and now. Once our invasion forces conquer your wretched land, there will be no mercy for anyone. Remember that!"
Remille delivered these words with such a tone that a chill, like an icy wind, swept through the room, seeming to freeze even the air itself. She burned with an insane desire to seize this arrogant diplomat by the throat, plunge a stiletto into him, and send his head, like a trophy, back to Russia as a warning to all who dared raise a hand against the mighty Parpaldian Empire.
But, to Remille's utter astonishment, the diplomats showed not the slightest flinch at her venomous outburst. Not a single muscle twitched, not a trace of emotion altered their faces, as if they were carved from stone—or simply didn't take her seriously. A brief, oppressive silence followed, after which the lead diplomat, with an indifferent, almost bored expression, spoke:
"Remille, you have no idea what terrible calamity you've brought upon your empire with your foolishness and arrogance. It would take my government a single press of a button to reduce the entire continent of Fillades to ashes, down to the last stone, turning it into a lifeless wasteland. This is a spell that will bring a curse upon your empire, upon your entire lineage," he said, each word clear, deliberate, and weighty, like a death sentence.
"Expect a surprise, Lady Remille. We're leaving now. Our government has no further desire to parley with pompous, foolish natives. All the best to you, and rest assured, we'll meet again—though not within these walls," he said with a smile, a dark, sinister glint flickering in his eyes.
"The ravings of the dead mean nothing to me. Save those words for the afterlife," Remille shot back with contempt, her hands clenching nervously until they cracked, barely restraining the rage and urge to pounce on these insolent intruders. Only immense self-control kept her from shattering her mask of composure and attacking the diplomats, who seemed utterly unbothered by her presence and departed with their heads held high.
Emerging from the stifling confines of the First Division's palace, the diplomats, like shadows, quickened their pace and headed toward a waiting carriage without a backward glance. Judging by their demeanor, Remille's threats didn't faze them in the least—or perhaps it was simply a masterful performance.
Central Highway, outskirts of Esthirant. Road section.
"This is First, Second (callsigns), respond to the call," the diplomat spoke into the radio, his facial features suddenly hardening, as if carved from stone, while a cold, calculating resolve gleamed in his eyes.
"Receiving you, what's the situation, First?" came a distorted voice through the static, sharp and barely intelligible.
"Cerberus has declared genocide on us. Pack it up — Plan: Retreat. Assign Alpha and Beta groups targeting instructions for the industrial districts. Gamma group is to commence Operation Dawn immediately, no waiting for the signal."
"Understood, First," came the curt reply, and the connection cut off.
The carriage screeched to a halt, as if possessed, the horses rearing up and neighing wildly, like they'd been jolted by an electric shock, nearly tipping the vehicle onto its side.
"Damn it!" the "fake diplomat" cursed with venom, instantly switching the radio frequency, his face contorting with rage. "Why'd you stop, you idiot?"
The radio clicked rhythmically, like an invisible code transmitted across unseen waves.
"Looks like an ambush," he muttered, almost a whisper, pulling a PL-15 pistol from under his jacket. With a nod to his partner, he deftly flicked off the safety, chambered a round, and, like a seasoned assassin, concealed the weapon beneath his suit, barrel aimed toward the carriage door, ready to fire at a moment's notice.
A persistent, menacing knock rattled the carriage door, like someone pounding on a coffin lid. Cautiously yet decisively, the diplomats opened it and saw a familiar face.
"Greetings, esteemed ambassadors from the Russian Federation. Allow me to invite you to dine at my humble estate. It's just nearby," smiled an unfamiliar yet recognizable figure in an elegant black coat, his gaze seeming to pierce right through them as he casually gestured in a direction unknown to the diplomats.
The lead diplomat, with a professional, slightly forced smile, replied politely:
"Hello, Lord Kaios. We're grateful for your hospitality, but unfortunately, we cannot accept your invitation. We are at war with the Parpaldian Empire, and there's nothing more to discuss. Please accept our deepest apologies." His tone was courteous, but his hand, hidden in his jacket sleeve, continued to grip the pistol, poised to shoot.
"Spare me just a moment of your attention, gentlemen, just one minute!" Kaios exclaimed, his smile widening suddenly, though a flicker of inexplicable madness danced in his eyes.
"War with the Russian Federation is a fatal mistake for my empire — fatal and irreparable! It would be a grave and unforgivable folly if our nations had no common ground. I'd like to establish a direct line of communication with you and set up a radio beacon at my estate to avoid unnecessary bloodshed." His voice was grave, devoid of any jest.
"To be frank, I'm not particularly keen on getting caught in a carpet bombing," he concluded, fixing them with an odd, expectant look that seemed to bore into their very souls.
The lead diplomat tensed inwardly, like a taut string, but maintained an impassive expression, his finger brushing the trigger almost imperceptibly.
"Would it be possible for me to share something only you and I know, to finally earn your trust?"
"That… might be possible," the diplomat replied slowly, a faint trace of surprise in his voice, his body still coiled, like a spring ready to snap.
"But that was probably many years ago — I've lost track of time by now," Kaios said with a sly smirk, like a cat toying with a mouse.
"The Chernobyl nuclear explosion—does that ring any bells? The war in Afghanistan? Or perhaps the collapse of the USSR? Forgive me, but I can't recall the exact dates anymore; I'm getting old," Kaios grinned again, watching their reactions as if waiting for their masks to finally crack.
To say the diplomats were stunned would be an understatement. The "fake diplomat's" mask of indifference shattered, like it had been struck by lightning, while his companion's jaw dropped, cold sweat beading on his forehead at what they'd just heard.
"What was that you said about dining?" the diplomat rasped, barely believing his ears or eyes, struggling to maintain some semblance of composure.
Kaios, chuckling with satisfaction, said:
"Right this way, gentlemen-comrades," and gestured for them to follow.
The Parpaldian Empire. The capital, Esthirant. Lord Kaios's Estate.
The interior of the estate was a breathtaking display of unabashed wealth and refined splendor. The furniture seemed to breathe artistry and elegance, as if crafted by the hands of the greatest masters, while tapestries depicting scenes from mythical battles adorned the walls. Seated at the table were two Russian diplomats and one Parpaldian lord, like characters from some fantastical epic.
"I can see you've got a ton of questions for me," Kaios chuckled, popping a juicy piece of duck into his mouth and washing it down with a swig of rich burgundy wine without even chewing.
"And judging by the looks on your faces, there's no shortage of them, I'm sure. Go ahead, ask away—time's on our side. Try the duck in sweet-and-sour sauce; despite all your fancy manners, you'll be licking your fingers," he smirked, as if anticipating their astonishment.
"Thank you, Kaios," the lead diplomat replied, recovering slightly from his shock. He sliced a neat, small piece of duck and placed it in his mouth, striving to maintain his calm and composure.
"Mmm, you're right… it's delicious. What was your name… what were you called in your past life? How do you know about the Chernobyl disaster and the war in Afghanistan?"
"Alexey Borisovich," Kaios answered with a wistful smile. He took a sip of wine, wiped his mouth with a napkin made of the finest silk, and continued his tale:
"Back then, I lived in Moscow. I was just a young lad, my blood boiling like lava in a volcano's crater. With my father's help—he was a high-ranking official—I enrolled in the KGB's Red Banner Institute named after Yuri Andropov. I can still picture it clear as day.
After graduating with honors, I joined the special forces unit Cascade. Our mission was to train and prepare personnel among the Afghans and conduct search-and-recon operations to wipe out bandit groups," he said, his voice tinged with pride.
"Oh, how many years have passed… oh, forgive me, I got sidetracked. Next question?"
"How old are you now?" the diplomat asked, studying Kaios closely, as if trying to unravel the enigma of his soul.
"In this body," Kaios chuckled, pointing to himself, "or altogether, counting that past life?"
"Altogether."
"Two hundred. Give or take," Kaios replied with a philosophical air.
"Ahem, I see," the diplomat said, rubbing his chin, trying to gather his thoughts and mask his astonishment. "And… how did you end up in this body?"
"My heart gave out," Kaios said with a sad smirk, as if recalling something painful.
"It couldn't handle the collapse of the USSR—the injustice, the betrayal. I thought I'd see a light at the end of that dark tunnel… and I did. That's when I entered the body of an infant, taking its soul and living in this shell like a parasite for all these years. At first, I hated it all—those pompous counts, those arrogant lords—but now, it's become a second motherland to me. In the end, I got used to it and adapted to this new life," he said, his voice laced with either bitterness or nostalgia, as if he were a prisoner of two worlds.
"I understand. So, what do you want from us, Alexey Borisovich?"
"Here's the deal… what's your name? Actually, your call sign will do," Kaios said, fixing the "fake diplomat" with an expectant look. His trained eye, honed by years as a professional operative, easily spotted the man's seasoned fighter's demeanor.
"First," the diplomat replied tersely.
"Well then, First, I've got plenty of contacts among the Parpaldian Empire's elite who listen to me—and let's just say the current Emperor Ludius isn't exactly their favorite person," Kaios continued, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather.
"As a lord, I have a full claim to the regency by right of the highest aristocratic lineage. And honestly, I'm not too keen on being buried under the rubble of my palace during an airstrike," he said, his gaze turning serious as he set his goblet down on the table.
"Once my rivals are out of the picture, I can take the throne and remain loyal to you—in exchange for setting up a radio beacon and establishing direct contact with you. How does that sound, comrades?"
"I'll relay your words to our government…"
The long-awaited "go-ahead" came through, and within a week, Russian specialists slipped into Kaios's estate like shadows, discreetly installing satellite communications, generators, and briefing him on how to use them. Afterward, through trusted merchants from Shios, they quietly left the empire and headed for the Kingdom of Fenn.