Chapter 23. In The Shadow Of War.
The Holy Mirishial Empire.The Port City of Cartalpas, The "Drowned Cod" Tavern.
Cartalpas, the second-largest city after the capital, sprawled along the bay like a living collage of different eras. The sound of crashing waves mixed with the hum of magical machinery. Tall concrete and brick buildings stretched toward the sky, as if they had grown from the earth itself. Some were adorned with intricate bas-reliefs and stained-glass windows that shimmered with an otherworldly glow. Spires of metal and luminescent quartz jutted above the rooftops, looking almost alien amidst the familiar cityscape.
Deep within the labyrinthine alleys of the port district, the Drowned Cod tavern bustled with its usual late-evening crowd. A refuge for sailors weary of the rolling sea and dockworkers drained from a day of backbreaking labor, the tavern was steeped in the sharp scents of ale, tobacco, and sweat-soaked leather. Wooden tables, darkened by candle soot, trembled under the weight of boisterous laughter and gruff voices. Benches, worn smooth by countless rear ends, creaked in protest under the weight of their occupants. As always, port workers gathered here to shake off the burden of their grueling day—leaving behind the heavy chains, soaked ropes, and the bellowing orders of their overseers—drowning their fatigue in strong, burning spirits. The air buzzed with rolling laughter, raucous conversation, and the occasional crash of shattering glass.
— Fanry, ain't your missus gonna kill you when you stumble home, huh? — One of the regulars rasped, slapping his friend on the shoulder hard enough to make him almost drop his mug.
— What for? — Fanry grumbled, chewing on a piece of dried fish.
— Hic! 'Cause yer blowin' yer whole damn wage in here… and she's prolly been waitin' on ya for hours now… — another dockworker chimed in, his ale-clouded eyes unfocused as he slurred out the words, barely holding back a drunken tune that no doubt carried more than a few indecent lyrics.
— Shut yer traps, ya gulls! The news is startin'! — the broad-shouldered bartender bellowed, his face as chiseled as an oak statue. He raised a fist and pointed toward the magical panel, instantly silencing the tavern like a crypt. As if by command, every pair of eyes turned toward the flat crystal screen, which now hummed with a triumphant melody, announcing the arrival of something akin to a sacred ritual.
The patrons, still buzzing with ale-fueled excitement, fixated on the glowing screen. This device—essentially a magical counterpart to a television—was a rare sight, found only in taverns of major port cities or within the estates of aristocrats. Such advanced technology existed only within Mirishial and Mu, and even then, only in their capitals. But in the mightiest of the superpowers— Mirishial — these broadcasts came not only in color but also with sound. A true marvel. Once a week, magical television aired news from across the known world, showcasing incredible events and far-flung places. Merchants, who lacked access to such luxuries, eagerly absorbed every detail, extracting valuable insights to boost their profits. Ordinary folk, meanwhile, simply reveled in the spectacle, momentarily escaping their monotonous lives.
— "Good evening, esteemed viewers. It is time for the weekly world report. Today, we bring you some truly astonishing news. Now, let us move on to the most significant updates."
— Quick! Get the betting ledger! — a raspy voice croaked from the back of the room. Like a worm crawling out of a rotten apple, a scrawny, rodent-like patron wriggled out from behind a table.
The room erupted into a flurry of movement and hushed whispers. From beneath the bar counter emerged a massive, leather-bound tome, covered in strange magical sigils. Some men clenched their eyes shut, others made superstitious gestures, and a few murmured prayers to ancient gods. The tension in the air thickened with every passing second. The stakes were high—money, drinks, and sometimes even lives hung in the balance.
— "The Parpaldian Empire, ranked as the fourth-strongest among the superpowers and the dominant force in the Third Civilized Region, has suffered a crushing defeat in war. Engaged in aggressive expansion and renowned for its military prowess, Parpaldia has, for the first time in two centuries, endured catastrophic losses. Their once-feared army is now a shadow of its former self, instilling no terror in their enemies. This so-called 'uncivilized' coalition that brought them to their knees consisted of two nations: the Kingdom of Fenn and a distant eastern power—The Russian Federation. One-third of Parpaldia's naval forces have been obliterated, reducing their once-mighty fleet to little more than a ragtag collection of fishing boats. The exact nature of the weapon used by the coalition remains unknown, but one thing is certain—this strike has shaken the entire continent of Filades and echoed across the world."
A stunned silence fell over the tavern. The majority of gamblers had placed their bets on the Parpaldian Empire's victory, and now their faces had gone pale, as if they'd been struck by a tidal wave. But among them were a few who had dared to wager on the Russian Federation.
— And there you have it! The Russian Federation emerges victorious! All wagers placed on Parpaldia now belong to our two lucky winners—our regular, Fanry Andris, and a traveling merchant from distant lands, Nikolaus Broris! — the tavern owner announced, his grin stretching from ear to ear. — Gentlemen, step right up to claim your hard-earned winnings!
— Well, Farry Andris, looks like you're buyin' the next round! — one of the patrons laughed, nodding at the magical screen before bursting into a braying guffaw.
— Maybe next time, lads. My wife's waitin' on me, — Farry said, taking a final swig of his bitter ale before tossing a few coins onto the counter to settle his tab. He gathered his winnings and left the tavern with a light heart. Tonight, he had something to bring home to his wife, who had been waiting for him with patience and love. His gamble had paid off—betting on that enigmatic Russia had turned out to be the right call. The sum he'd won would be enough to buy a magical plasma screen of his own, as well as silk dresses for both his wife and daughter, whom he cherished above all else.
Back inside the tavern, the lively clamor of dockworkers resumed—until the bartender's booming voice cut through the noise once more:
— "The Gra-Valkas Empire, infamous for its conquest of the superpower Leifor and its string of territorial expansions, has officially requested the convening of the 'Summit of the Eleven Superpowers.' Our government is currently evaluating the possibility of hosting this historic gathering, which would bring together the mightiest nations from across the Three Civilized Regions."
The Parpaldian Empire.
Vassal Duchy – Kooze.
Once a symbol of wealth and prosperity, the once-proud Kingdom of Kooze had rotted from within, like an old, decaying tree stump, under the oppressive rule of the Parpaldian Empire. In just twenty years, this once-thriving kingdom had crumbled into a wretched, impoverished duchy. Its cities, now little more than scorched ruins, were shrouded in perpetual darkness, while its people languished in hopelessness, despair, and utter destitution. Each passing day was a form of torture, twisting the joints of both mind and body, driving deeper into the hearts of the people an ever-growing sense of despair. Every breath was like inhaling sand, burning their lungs from the inside. Every step felt like walking with lead weights shackled to their ankles. Every mistake was met with the familiar, numbing lash of the whip, leaving scars so thick on their backs they might as well have been carved from stone.
The strong, like wild beasts, clawed their way out of poverty and fled—some north, some south, some to the sea. The weak, like flies, succumbed to exhaustion, hunger, and disease. And no one cared.
Haki, like a cornered animal, was once again trudging toward the mines to extract those cursed magical gemstones—stones that had once brought his people great fortune but now drained the last remnants of their strength. His father had gone off to war against some chthonic beast when Haki was only five years old. His family lineage was ancient and once truly powerful, known for their magical abilities. But the might of a mere kingdom could never match that of an empire—it was like comparing raindrops to a raging storm. His father had been slain in battle, his body desecrated and burned like a stray dog on a pyre. And his mother… his mother had been raped as if she were nothing more than an object, then discarded in a garbage pit with her throat slit, as if she were useless refuse.
As for Haki, he had been thrown into the mines as if he were nothing more than a slave, forced to dig for those damned gems. But on the day he turned seventeen, he managed to sink his teeth into the throat of one of the overseers who had let his guard down, tearing it open with a fury he hadn't known he possessed. He spat out the foul, rotting flesh in disgust. The blame for the killing was placed on the creatures that lurked in the depths of the mines, and no investigation was ever conducted. To the Parpaldians, it was just another unfortunate accident.
Hatred, fury, and something almost primal surged through Haki's veins like a raging river, making him feel more alive than he ever had before. Like a mad demon, he tore those grayish-purple creatures apart with his bare hands. His nails, sharpened like claws, ripped through flesh, and his teeth, honed to points like a predator's fangs, sunk into his prey.
But over time, the Parpaldians began to take notice. They realized that the carnage in the mines wasn't the work of some mindless beast, but rather a man—one who had been stripped of everything and cornered like a rat. And so, he stopped his bloody hunts. The rage in his heart, once a roaring fire, began to fade, replaced by the numbness of despair. Indifference soon followed, like the calm, lifeless surface of the sea after a storm.
Like a broken puppet, Haki began to ask himself the one question he could never answer without bitterness:
— "Why fight?"
"There's no point. The power of a superpower and a wretched little kingdom can't be compared—like an ant to an elephant."
"Even if the will for freedom awakened in the hearts of the people, even if they longed to soar like birds, it wouldn't change a thing. Between Parpaldia and the rest of the vassal states, there is an insurmountable abyss—like the gap between heaven and hell."
But then, on another one of those dull, gray, lifeless days, an echo reached the mines where he worked. A whisper of news. The empire, once thought invincible, had been crushed—defeated by an alliance of two nations from the so-called "Uncivilized Lands."
Unbelievable.
And then, like a thunderclap in a cloudless sky, the sound of music from a mana receiver reached his ears—stirring something deep within him. Something old. Something long buried.
His lips trembled like leaves in the wind, and from his dirt-streaked cheeks, filthy rivers of tears began to flow.
Like a corpse rising from the grave, Haki came back to life.
Russian Federation. Moscow. One of the luxury suites at the Metropol Hotel.
A business-like atmosphere prevailed in the spacious luxury suite of the Metropol Hotel, furnished with ostentatious opulence. Myrus, a technical specialist, and Lassan, an officer of the Mu army, were conducting a debriefing after a powerful demonstration aboard the destroyer "Persistent." The phenomenal accuracy and rate of fire of the Russian ship's guns struck the diplomats like a thunderclap, shattering all their previous notions about military technology.
Struggling to find the right words, the translator recounted information from a weapons encyclopedia the guests had purchased, showing them illustrations that looked like something out of a science fiction movie, depicting weapons they had never seen before. The sheer absurdity and unprecedented nature of these armaments—such as a ship capable of submerging underwater, which the Russians called a "submarine," guided missiles with an effective range starting at a hundred kilometers, and torpedoes that could travel beneath the water's surface to strike their targets—left the two diplomats in a state of shock, as if they had been struck by lightning.
Myrus and Lassan reached a sobering conclusion: even if Mu devoted all its resources to developing similar technology, it would take an enormous amount of materials, manpower, and years to achieve. The military power of Mu and the Russian Federation were as different as the sun and the moon—completely incomparable. And yet, what they had seen was only the tip of the iceberg. In the end, they had to acknowledge that Mu had precisely zero technological advantage over Russia, and that in the event of military conflict, their army would be nothing more than cannon fodder.
Both guests, however, were relieved that the Russian Federation and Mu maintained a trusting relationship and that Russia seemed willing to assist them. Having witnessed only a fraction of Russia's military strength and technology, both officers were already mentally sketching out countermeasures against the Gra Valkas Empire should they attempt to invade Mu.
"What do you think of Russia's technology, Myrus?" Lassan asked, breaking the silence and discarding diplomatic formalities.
"What's there to think about? It's clear that Russian technology completely outclasses ours, like a bull overpowering a sheep. There's just no comparison," Myrus said, shrugging, unable to hide his amazement. Taking a sip from a glass of chilled water, he continued, "Take our latest development, for example—the bolt-action rifle with a stripper clip, chambered in 7.756mm, and our heavy machine guns. For them, that's old junk they've already thrown away. Their technology is a century ahead of ours, maybe more. There are things here I don't even begin to understand, things we may never be able to achieve."
Myrus pointed in awe at a laptop resting on a shelf. "Especially that high-performance mobile computing device, which our translator tells us is called a 'notebook' or 'laptop.' I can't even think of a proper analogy for it. It's like an ancient craftsman looking up and seeing a modern airplane soaring through the sky."
"I agree with you, Myrus," Lassan said, taking a sip from a cup filled with a fizzy beverage that bore a suspicious resemblance to carbonated water but with an unusual taste. "What surprises me more is their approach to warfare. They act fast, decisively—even ruthlessly—giving the enemy no time to react and utterly annihilating them. If we can crush the Parpaldian fleet with ease, then Russia could sink ours and not even break a sweat."
Lassan exhaled and leaned back in his chair, as if trying to hide his unease. Both specialists let out deep sighs, as though trying to expel their frustration and sense of helplessness. A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the muffled sounds of Moscow's streets outside the window.
"You know, Lassan, we do have plans to modernize our military," Myrus said, breaking the silence. He pulled a sheet of paper and a pencil from his briefcase and gestured for Lassan to come closer, as if he were about to reveal something important.
"And what are those plans?" Lassan asked, his eyes lighting up with interest.
"First, we need to work within our means. We need semi-automatic weapons—something like the Russian SKS* (self-loading carbine of the Simonov system) chambered in 7.6239mm or the M1 Garand from the encyclopedia, chambered in 7.6251mm—but adapted for our standard cartridge. We need a new caliber for submachine guns, and eventually, we should replicate the submachine gun designs shown in the encyclopedia. We also need vehicles. For now, even an armored car with a heavy machine gun would suffice, and later, we could start developing experimental mechanized units.
On top of that, we need missiles. Even if they aren't as fast as Russian ones, it would still be a step forward. This would push us to shift from trench warfare to a mechanized warfare doctrine. I believe this would give us a major advantage, allowing us to surpass the Holy Mirishial Empire, which currently sees itself as the ruler of the world."
Myrus finished and looked at his friend, awaiting his reaction.
"Hmm… interesting plans, with a long-term vision. But the general staff will take a long time to adopt a new doctrine and retrain its soldiers," Lassan mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "By the way, what do you think of the Gra-Valkas Empire?"
"We have extremely limited intelligence on their capabilities, tactics, and weaponry. They hunt down our scouts like wolves tearing through a flock of partridges. That's precisely why I'm sharing this plan with you," Myrus said seriously, fixing his gaze on his friend. "We need to prepare for the worst because we have no idea what the Gra-Valkas have in store for us."
"You're right, Myrus," Lassan finally agreed, realizing the wisdom in his friend's words.
With that, the conversation between the diplomats died down, and they shifted to casual talk, indulging in fine cuisine and reminiscing about their homeland.
Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Russian Federation, Moscow.
Yuhi, the appointed ambassador of the superpower Mu, arrived at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs by invitation, feeling somewhat out of place among the towering, austere buildings constructed in a vastly different architectural style.
"Welcome, Yuhi," said Georgiy Borisovich, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, his face radiating warmth and hospitality. "Tea? Coffee? Unfortunately, I can't offer anything stronger." The minister gestured invitingly toward a chair at the table.
"Tea, please," Yuhi replied reservedly, taking a seat.
"Of course," the minister nodded to his secretary. Once the tea was brought in and the secretary silently exited the room, the minister continued, "I have a request for you as the ambassador of Mu, and I hope you'll be willing to assist us."
"And what would that request be, Georgiy Borisovich?" Yuhi inquired, looking at the minister with interest.
With a magician-like motion, the minister pulled out large A1-sized photographs from his desk drawer. Displaying them to Yuhi, he asked,
"As you can see from these satellite images, your country had planned to build an airport in the Kingdom of Altaras. However, due to the unstable situation, this territory is now under the control of the Parpaldian Empire. Would it be possible for us to use this abandoned airport and its runway?" The minister finished his question, watching the ambassador closely.
"Yes, that airport was abandoned by us, and there are no Mu citizens present in the area. You may do with it as you wish," Yuhi replied with a slight sigh, acknowledging that their plans had ultimately gone unfulfilled.
"That is excellent news," the minister said, his eyes lighting up with excitement, as if two sparks had just ignited within them.
The Holy Mirishial Empire. Capital: Runepolis. The Bureau of Information and Propaganda Analysis.
Within the walls of the Bureau of Information and Propaganda Analysis, located in the very heart of Runepolis, an air of tense anticipation hung thick. Magical lamps, suspended beneath the vaulted ceilings, cast flickering reflections over stacks of reports and maps covering the analysts' desks. Here, in the hushed offices, an intense effort was underway—collecting and analyzing intelligence from every corner of the world.
Pale-faced specialists with weary eyes, their gazes feverishly sharp, sifted through piles of documents, searching for confirmations or refutations of the latest rumors. After countless hours of painstaking work, the Bureau had arrived at a grim conclusion: two new powerful nations had emerged on the world stage, their ambitions and military might striking fear into all.
Reports indicated that the royal couple had displayed an inappropriate level of disdain toward the ambassador of the Gra-Valkas Empire. According to unverified information, this ambassador was none other than the emperor's son and heir—an heir they had dared to insult. Enraged by their words, the emperor's son, like a furious beast, took the insult personally and declared war on the entire Second Civilized Region, swearing to wipe it off the face of the earth.
In mere days, the Gra-Valkas Empire, moving like a whirlwind, had seized the Kingdom of Paganda. Soon after, with unimaginable brutality, they annihilated Leifor—the fifth-strongest superpower in the known world—leaving all of civilization trembling in fear.
"What have you learned about the Gra-Valkas Empire?" the head of the analytical department asked, his face like chiseled stone, his piercing gaze fixed on his subordinate.
"According to intelligence reports," the assistant replied, his eyes burning with feverish intensity, "we have identified the capital of the Gra-Valkas Empire. Based on mana-graphs, it is unlike any of our cities, which already suggests its uniqueness. We also analyzed their naval battle formations and ground invasion strategies. Our findings indicate that the Gra-Valkas super-dreadnought, class 'Atlastar,' is at least on par with, if not surpassing, our newest warships in power. Their infantry is armed with mechanical firearms, with no detected use of magical enhancements." He paused, swallowing nervously.
"Additionally, we have identified mechanized infantry support units—machines that look as though they were crafted by the hands of a demon. They resemble those described by our agent in the Kingdom of Topa."
A sharp, iron-like headache gripped the director's skull, and with despair, he buried his hands in his hair. The realization that yet another great power had seemingly emerged from thin air was not only a psychological torment but a physical pain as well. He understood all too well: these new forces would have to be reckoned with sooner or later. And they posed a grave and serious threat.
"The second issue...?" The director gave a slight nod, prompting his assistant to continue.
"The second matter concerns an incident in the Kingdom of Topa. A country from the Uncivilized Region, known as the Russian Federation, deployed its forces to assist in the fight against the Ravernal Empire's bio-magical weapon—codenamed 'Nosgorath'—and emerged victorious."
"The weaponry they used to battle the Demon Lord was referred to as 'BTRs.' We believe these are a lighter variant of their main heavy weapon, the 'tank,' primarily designed for troop transport," the assistant sighed before continuing. "No traces of magical influence were found. It is likely that Russia, like Gra-Valkas, is a nation of science that disregards the power of magic."
The assistant laid out several mana-graphs taken by field agents on the director's desk.
"Our agent managed to capture mana-graphs of the battle. This is what they call a BTR, and this is their tank. Based on our findings, our magical engines would be incapable of replicating these machines—it's simply beyond our technological reach. Also noteworthy is their use of missiles, which are faster and more precise than anything we have, with destructive power that seemingly surpasses our most advanced artillery."
"In summary, we can state with absolute certainty that the Russian Federation is more advanced in both science and military technology than our empire. We cannot defeat them." The assistant's voice wavered.
"A potential conflict with a superpower known as the Parpaldian Empire, we can win in the dry without breaking a sweat." But the rise of Russia poses a serious threat to the Holy Mirishial Empire." They will defeat us just as we will defeat the Parpaldian Empire."
"Recommendation: Establish diplomatic contact with the Russian authorities and attempt to build amicable relations with them."
The director, struggling to maintain a composed façade, gave his orders: "Gather more information on the Russian Federation... and find a way to open diplomatic dialogue with them before it's too late."
"Understood, sir," the assistant replied before leaving the office, his heart heavy with the knowledge that their empire faced an uncertain and perilous future.
The Russian Federation. Moscow. Meeting of the General Staff of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation.
A tense and focused atmosphere filled the conference hall of the General Staff of the Russian Federation's Armed Forces. High-ranking military officials, their faces serious, were gathered around large maps marked with key strategic points. The hastily convened meeting was dedicated to developing and approving an operational plan to liberate the Kingdom of Altaras from occupation by the Parpaldian Empire.
Satellite imagery and intelligence reports provided a detailed picture of the enemy's troop deployments. Military bases of the Parpaldian Empire, like festering sores, were spread across the occupied kingdom. Near the capital of Altaras lay an abandoned airport, previously handed over by Mu. Southeast of it, a fortress was under construction—massive walls and towers rising ominously, alongside the stables of Lord Wyverns, their size indicating that these were no ordinary creatures. Capturing this site was deemed a top priority due to its strategic significance.
The second target was the port near Le-Brias, where a Parpaldian naval fleet was anchored, consisting of battleships, frigates, and smaller support vessels. Eliminating this fleet was critical to securing safe passage for maritime convoys heading to Altaras.
The third target, located fifty kilometers from the royal capital, was a heavily fortified stronghold with powerful defensive structures and barracks housing large garrisons of enemy soldiers. Significant concentrations of enemy forces had been identified in these three locations. In the coming days, the Russian Aerospace Forces (VKS RF) were set to launch a massive airstrike to weaken the enemy's defenses as much as possible.
After the large-scale bombardments, the rest would depend on the will of the Altarasians themselves—their resolve to reclaim their homeland—and on the operational teams deployed to assist the resistance. These teams would work covertly, striking unexpectedly to maximize their impact. The people of Altaras would reclaim their kingdom with their own hands, while the Russian military would provide them with substantial support and firepower.
Reality was unlikely to unfold as smoothly as it did on paper, but in accordance with the operation plan, Russian aviation would back any determined push for victory with overwhelming firepower—showcasing the full strength of the Russian Armed Forces.
Preparations for the operation were proceeding at an accelerated pace.