Chapter 17. When it all started.
Russian Federation. Saint Petersburg.
After a long hiatus caused by global events, the State Duma of the Russian Federation passed a new tourism law, symbolizing a return to peaceful life. The law clearly categorized countries into three groups: red, yellow, and green, based on their level of safety.
The red category included regions where travel was strictly prohibited. The reasons varied: wars, epidemics, government upheavals, and high crime rates. The list featured nations such as the Parpaldian Empire, the Sultanate of Buhur-Adi, the Kingdoms of Edin, Nimor, Ridge, as well as the Duchies of Bantián-el-Tarak, Arteis-sir-Lur, Varleten-u-Mobiris, the Principalities of Gitz, Lomentis, and Sinnal.
The yellow category marked countries where travel was not recommended. This group included the Kingdoms of Topa, Fenn, and Louria.
The green category covered the safest destinations, fully open to tourism. Among them were the Principality of Qua-Toyne, the Kingdom of Quilla, and the Tearchia of Gahara—the first nations to establish diplomatic ties with the Russian Federation.
In a cozy yet slightly cluttered apartment, the scent of freshly brewed tea lingered in the air. A young man named Alexey sat at his computer. His chestnut-brown hair was sticking out in all directions, as if he'd failed to tame it earlier. Open tabs on his monitor displayed travel agency websites.
"Nastya, why would we go to Fenn?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.
His girlfriend, Nastya, sat across from him, scrolling through her phone. Her long hair was gathered into a casual ponytail, and stylish glasses gleamed on her nose.
"Lyosh, we've already been to Quilla." She kept enthusiastically swiping through pictures. "Look at this—so gorgeous! This is Alyona on the Flower Trail in Fenn! Just look at these views!"
Alexey struggled to keep up with the rapidly changing photos.
"Yeah, it's beautiful," he admitted. "But Fenn is in the yellow category. I have a bad feeling about it."
Nastya hesitated, her fingers hovering over the screen for a moment.
"Really?" She looked at him with slight doubt. "Alright, then suggest something else."
"Besides Quilla, right?" Lyosha grinned, raising his hands in mock surrender.
Nastya laughed, and soon her laughter was contagious. After a brief pause, she put on a serious face again.
"Yes. Besides Quilla."
"Alright." He turned back to his computer and started scrolling through the list of green-category countries. "How about Qua-Toyne?"
Nastya leaned in closer to get a better look at the screen.
"Show me."
Alexey clicked on a tour page for the principality. The screen lit up with vibrant images—majestic forests, ancient castles, and charming villages. Nastya adjusted her glasses and began carefully reading through the details, from travel package prices to tourist reviews.
Several minutes passed as she read. Alexey waited silently, patiently watching as she nudged her glasses down to the tip of her nose.
Finally, Nastya looked up and, in an exaggeratedly formal tone, declared:
"By unanimous decision, we're going to Qua-Toyne."
They both laughed again, and Lyosha immediately booked the tickets for a flight in two days.
From that moment, the real chaos began. Suitcases lay open on the bed, and clothes were scattered everywhere. Nastya, caught up in the excitement of packing, kept rearranging her dresses and scarves, debating with herself over what to take and what to leave behind.
"Lyosh, have you packed your things yet?" she called from the bedroom.
"Almost!" his voice echoed from the kitchen. "Just five more minutes—I'm finishing my tea."
Half an hour later, both of them collapsed onto the bed, exhausted from packing. Alexey closed his eyes, while Nastya absentmindedly reached for her phone again, scrolling through more pictures of Qua-Toyne.
"I hope it's as beautiful as it looks in these photos," she murmured, glancing at Lyosha.
"And I hope they have decent breakfasts," he muttered with a grin, not even opening his eyes.
"Your priorities are always like this," she chuckled, switching off her phone.
When Russia realized it had been transported to another planet in late April 2027, the fate of foreign tourists caught in the country during the anomaly became one of the most debated and heart-wrenching topics. Approximately 15,000 people from the United States, China, Europe, Japan, and other countries vanished along with Russia from the old world, leaving their families in despair and uncertainty. At the moment of the transfer, they were scattered across the vast country: in Moscow hotels overlooking Red Square, on the bustling streets of St. Petersburg, aboard trains speeding through the Siberian taiga, or lounging on the sunny beaches of Krasnodar Krai. Their cameras, phones, and final messages cut off mid-sentence, as if time itself had frozen for them.
In the initial days of chaos, as Russia descended into turmoil, tourists found themselves at the heart of the storm. Emily Jones, a 28-year-old American from Texas with vibrant red hair, was livestreaming from St. Petersburg, standing by St. Isaac's Cathedral. Her voice trembled with excitement: "Guys, it's so beautiful here, but something weird's going on in the sky!"—and then the connection dropped.
Wang Zheng, a 45-year-old businessman from Shanghai, sent his wife a photo from Altai an hour before vanishing: he stood against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains, grinning at the camera, with a caption that read: "Home soon." Karl Schmidt, a 34-year-old photographer from Germany, uploaded a shot of Lake Baikal to the cloud—the lake shimmered under the setting sun, captioned: "Last frame before sunset." These people, along with thousands of others, suddenly found themselves in a new world alongside Russia, with no understanding of what lay ahead.
As the panic subsided and the government announced the reality of the transfer, tourists were rounded up into humanitarian camps under the oversight of the Ministry of Emergency Situations. Their plight sparked heated debates: many shouted, demanding to be sent home, clutching at soldiers and pleading for help, but Russia, completely cut off from the old world, was powerless to act. All contact with Earth was gone for good, and the tourists faced a stark choice: stay and adapt or live in perpetual longing for the past. The authorities offered temporary housing in high-rise apartments on city outskirts, jobs at enterprises in the new world, and, for those willing, Russian citizenship. Emily settled in Moscow, starting a blog about life in "new Russia." Her posts about the beastfolk of Quila—tall figures with cat-like ears and tails—racked up millions of views among Russians, and her American accent became her signature charm. Wang Zheng joined an oil company in Quila, forging trade deals for rare-earth metals with Qua-Toyne and even learning Russian to negotiate. Karl Schmidt kept capturing the landscapes of the new world—his exhibitions in St. Petersburg galleries, showcasing photographs of Qua-Toyne's forests and Quila's deserts, drew crowds of admirers.
The realization among ordinary Russians that foreign tourists had been swept along with them to this new world sparked a blend of sympathy, bewilderment, and practical concerns. In the first days after the transfer, as streets buzzed with rumors and televisions blared reports about the new planet, people hashed it out in bread lines, on subway cars, and over kitchen tables. In St. Petersburg, Anna Petrova, a 35-year-old grocery store clerk, heard from a friend in the Ministry of Emergency Situations that Americans and Chinese were being gathered into camps. "Poor things, they just came to see the Hermitage, and now they're stuck here," she said to her husband over dinner, stirring a pot of borscht.
"How are they supposed to live? This isn't their country."
Her husband, Sergey, a 38-year-old bus driver, shrugged.
"What can you do? None of us chose to end up here. Let 'em work, since that's how it turned out."
In Moscow, Igor Nikolaev, a 42-year-old taxi driver, was giving Emily Jones a ride from the camp to her new apartment on the city's outskirts.
"Where you from, American girl?" he asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. Emily, still shaky with her Russian, smiled:
"Texas."
Igor chuckled.
"Well, welcome to the new world. We're not exactly thrilled either, but we get by."
He helped her carry her bag to the building's entrance and later told his buddies at the garage: "Nice kid, feel bad for her. Imagine—came for a week, now she's here for good."
In Novosibirsk, the Kuznetsov family was talking it over during tea. Their daughter, Masha, a 19-year-old student, was scrolling through social media when she stumbled on a post by Karl Schmidt with a photo of the local train station in this new world.
"Mom, look, this German guy's taking pictures of tourists," she said, holding up her phone.
"They're stuck here with us." Her mother, Elena, a 45-year-old nurse, sighed.
"God, it must be so hard for them. At least we're home — they're total strangers here."
Her father, Viktor, a 47-year-old engineer, set down his newspaper.
"They'll manage. There's plenty of work, housing's enough. Just hope they don't stir up trouble."
Ordinary Russians saw the tourists as fellow victims of circumstance, caught in the same wild twist of fate. Social media lit up with posts: "These foreigners are in the same boat as us—we gotta help them out." But there were grumblers too:
"We're barely scraping by ourselves, and now we've got tourists to settle?"
By and large, Russians accepted their presence as part of the strange new reality, though questions lingered:
"Why'd they get pulled along too? Is it fate or just dumb luck?"
No answers came, and life rolled on.
Free Economic Zone of Nishinomiyako remained a tense battleground. In the blockaded territories of the Fenn Kingdom, private military companies acting in the interests of international corporations such as RosEarthScientificCommunityNewTech (RESCNT), VosEconCommunity, and TerraRosGroup had intensified their operations. The Sword King Shihan and the Ministry of Defense declined to comment on the situation in Nishinomiyako.
"The OES 'Orion-0,' manufactured by the RosEarthScientificCommunityNewTech corporation, has successfully entered our planet's orbit. According to research data, this orbital energy station is expected to pay for itself within twenty years..." The monotone voice of the news anchor droned on from the television.
Alexey sleepily reached for the remote and turned off the TV. The room was once again plunged into dim twilight. He turned his head to look at Nastya, who was peacefully snuggled under the blanket. Her face was serene, and her hair was slightly tousled from sleep. Moving carefully so as not to disturb her, Alexey got up from the bed, stretched his stiff muscles, and headed to the shower. Nishinomiyako
Water streamed steadily from the showerhead, washing away the last remnants of sleep, but the thoughts swirling in his mind were heavy. Standing under the lukewarm stream, he replayed the events of a year and a half ago—the moment everything changed.
Warm water poured over him, washing away the fog of sleep, but not the weight of memories, the tide that pulled him back to April 2027. The anomaly began in the north, near Novaya Zemlya, and its first waves were distorted, which jammed the radio with static and lit up the sky with a flicker beyond the control of scientists.
It spread inexorably — south to Krasnodar, west to Kaliningrad, east to Vladivostok — but it did not spill out beyond Russia's borders, as if the nation were its canvas, its cage.
He could feel it here in St. Petersburg: the shimmer above the city's spires, the hum that made his teeth ache, as if the air held his breath. News reports stumbled, first blaming equipment failures, then whispering about something unnatural that the satellites couldn't measure. He looked out of this apartment, clutching a mug of cold tea, its edge chipped from too many careless nights, while the Kremlin was tossing, President Mikhail Viktorovich's voice sounded firm but tense, promising answers that Anomaly ridiculed.
And then, just a few days later, the president announced that we were no longer on our home planet, and a feeling of weightlessness enveloped everyone.
Then came the chaos.
City after city descended into disorder. People rioted, as if stripped not just of comfort, but of reason itself. The National Guard seemed powerless against the wave of violence and anarchy that engulfed the streets.
Alexey remembered the riots that broke out in Izhevsk, his hometown. The news reported that troops had been deployed to suppress attempts to establish an independent Udmurt Republic. His mother told him how the moment people sensed weakness in the authorities, they turned into savages—looting stores, banks, even schools.
— "They were demanding independence, as if that would save them from the chaos," Alexey recalled his mother's words.
Police stations were left untouched—they were too well-fortified. But looters acted boldly, attacking in mobs and leaving destruction in their wake. Even over the phone, while speaking with his mother, Alexey could hear the screams of people, the rattle of automatic gunfire, and the deep thuds of distant shots.
It was the echo of war, carried from his hometown, and it felt unreal.
— "Don't go outside, stay home!" his mother had shouted over the phone, drowning out the sounds of gunfire.
But by then, Alexey had already made his decision.
Nastya was asleep as he hurriedly packed his things. She was safe—her family lived in the Leningrad region, where the unrest wasn't as severe. Pressing a goodbye kiss to her forehead, he slung his bag over his shoulder, tightened the straps, and set out for Izhevsk.
Alexey closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the cold water wash over his face. His memory pulled him back to the moment he left St. Petersburg. The journey had been long, tense, and filled with security checkpoints.
At every roadblock, his car was stopped, searched, and only then allowed through. Military trucks with black plates and armored personnel carriers were a common sight alongside civilian vehicles on the highways.
It took him four days to reach Izhevsk. And as he neared the city, it became clear—the situation was far worse than he had imagined.
A massive checkpoint loomed over the road like an impenetrable fortress wall. Alexey pulled up to an intercom and pressed the green button. His voice wavered slightly as he stated the reason for his arrival.
— "Proceed to the designated area, exit your vehicle," came the order from the loudspeaker.
Alexey complied, raising his hands over his head, and caught a glimpse of a soldier on the nearest watchtower—his heavy machine gun trained directly on him. A knot of tension tightened in his chest, but the inspection went smoothly. Thankfully, they didn't cut open the seats in his car, and he got away with just a moment of unease.
— "You'll need to report to the emergency HQ to inquire about your relatives," one of the soldiers informed him curtly.
Alexey nodded, got back in his car, and drove toward the given location. At the registration desk, he anxiously spoke his family's names. When he received confirmation that they were in a humanitarian camp, an immense weight lifted off his shoulders.
With permission secured, he wasted no time, flooring the gas pedal toward his destination.
At the camp's checkpoint, he flashed his pass and was let inside. His heart pounded wildly as he searched the crowd for his family.
And then—he saw them.
His father, mother, younger brother, and sister. Tears blurred his vision as he rushed forward, arms wide, pulling them into a crushing embrace.
Three long years spent apart dissolved in that single moment.
The reunion was warm and long-awaited. And once Alexey made sure they were all safe and healthy, he packed them into the car and set off back to St. Petersburg.
This time, he drove slowly, carefully, with no sense of urgency. There was no need to rush anymore. Everything was alright.
Three days later, upon their return to St. Petersburg, the news broke—Russia had been transported to another world.
The entire country reeled. The streets, social media, the subway—everything buzzed with the shocking revelation. Slowly, the panic began to subside, and life started to settle into a new rhythm. But the questions remained.
"Among the most striking discoveries were the first images of the new world's inhabitants. The beastmen from Quila, who combined human and animal traits, became a symbol of this strange new reality. Alexey, like many others, watched with bated breath as diplomats from Quila were received in Moscow, their exotic appearance broadcast across the country."
Alexey also remembered his time working under contract in the Kingdom of Quila.
That country had stunned him with its stark contrasts—a land teeming with life, like a stirred anthill, bustling with relentless energy and labor. The oasis cities, as the locals called them, thrived amidst vast desert lands.
While working security for an oil crew at one of the kingdom's largest fields, Alexey had watched entire cities spring up beside the operations.
Water wells, refineries, and railways built by the Russian Federation transformed the very face of Quila. Beastfolk from across the region flocked to these lands in search of work, and their cities expanded like mushrooms after the rain.
The job had been relatively peaceful—especially compared to Louria, where Alexey had to "dodge arrows with his ass."
The beastfolk were incredibly hospitable, welcoming him and his colleagues with open arms. Their gratitude stemmed from Russia's assistance—a railway stretching from the Principality of Qua-Toyne to Quila's capital and its major oasis cities had ushered in an era of economic growth.
Russia paid for rare earth metals and crude oil with food supplies—purchased from Qua-Toyne—and its infrastructure, fueling Quila's rapid development.
Alexey looked back on those times fondly, comparing the flourishing oasis cities to the "middle of nowhere" where he once had to fight just to survive.
Now, back in Saint Petersburg, he saw how Russia was not just adapting to this new world, but reshaping it—helping nations grow while securing its own future.
"Lyosh! Are you going to take forever in there?" came Nastya's bright voice from outside the bathroom door.
"Almost done! Just a sec, Nast," Alexey called back, turning off the water.
He grabbed a towel, quickly dried himself off, and got dressed before stepping out. Nastya stood in the hallway, wrapped in a fluffy towel, droplets of water sparkling in her damp hair. Alexey walked over, pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek, and then headed straight to his workspace.
Sitting down at his computer, he powered on the screen, opened his inbox, and immediately noticed a new email. Clicking on it, he began reading:
"Dear Alexey Borisovich, your request has been approved. Please report to the nearest branch of TerraRosGroup. Be sure to bring your passport, military ID, a recommendation letter from the Ministry of Defense, as well as a note from your current employer. Sincerely, A.I. Nakhimov."
Leaning back in his chair, Alexey exhaled deeply. After all the waiting, he finally had an answer. Now, he had the chance to go to Fenn—the job seemed straightforward: escorting TerraRosGroup's cargo ships.
He recalled stories from his friends working in war zones, places drowning in pure chaos. Some nations were still locked in endless civil conflicts, their governments overthrown. The tales he'd heard painted a picture of hell—pandemics, destruction, lawlessness, bloodshed. Out there, everyone was an enemy: the government, warlords, rebels. But the ones who suffered most were the civilians.
A chill ran down Alexey's spine as he thought about those conditions.
"Yeah, screw that. I'll take Fenn instead," he muttered under his breath.
"What'd you say, Lyosh?" Nastya peeked around the doorway, adjusting the towel on her head.
"Just that I'm starving," Alexey grinned, rubbing his stomach. "Feel like cooking?"
"And what, pray tell, does His Majesty crave?"
"Hmmm… plov!"
"Alright, but you'll have to wait until my hair dries," she called back, heading toward the bedroom. "Help me out?"
"Of course."
Together, they started cooking, turning it into a fun, shared experience. Laughter and conversation filled their cozy kitchen as they simmered the rice, seared the meat, and carefully selected the spices. In the end, the plov came out perfect.
Seated at the table, they spent the evening chatting about their future, reminiscing about past adventures. Later, they went out shopping, picking up small home essentials and gifts for their upcoming trip.
The next day, they finally set off on their long-awaited journey to the Duchy of Qua-Toyne. Surrounded by rolling green hills and picturesque fantasy-style towns, Alexey decided it was time.
During a quiet evening stroll, he knelt on one knee and presented Nastya with an elegant dragon-shaped ring, its ruby glistening like fiery embers.
Nastya gasped, covering her mouth with both hands.
"Are you serious?" she whispered, her eyes wide with surprise and joy.
"Nast, will you marry me?" Alexey asked, watching her face light up.
"Yes!" she cried, throwing herself into his arms with such force that he nearly lost his balance.
The ring Alexey gave her was one of a kind, a gift from the elder of the Mountain Stream Clan. But now, it held a new meaning—one of love and commitment.
That evening, they basked in the moment, dreaming about their future together. One chapter of their lives had come to an end, leaving space for a new one — filled with hope, plans, and adventures yet to come.