Chapter 34. Conference of Leaders of 11 countries. Part 1.
The Russian Federation. Moscow. The Kremlin.
The President of the Russian Federation sat at a large oak table, his face calm, yet his gaze was heavy and intensely focused. The room was steeped in tense silence. He scanned the Ministers of Internal Affairs and Defense, along with the Director of the Federal Security Service, studying each of them closely. The long silence pressed down on everyone present, wrapping the room in an atmosphere of overwhelming unease. Nothing disturbed the moment—nothing except the faint thump of a pulse in someone's temple and the soft rustle of paper documents no one dared to turn. There was a palpable sense of inevitability in the air, as if each person there knew deep down that something utterly unthinkable had just occurred.
"I want to know who… use any means necessary," the President said, his voice cold, every syllable weighed down with gravity. "I want a list. I want names. I want to know who is behind this."
His eyes seemed to pierce right through each man seated before him, dragging out their inner doubts and fears into the open. His attention remained fixed on the ministers and the FSB director, whose faces reflected tense anticipation. Only a barely visible vein pulsing at the President's temple and the silver strands in his hair betrayed the deep worry he was trying so hard to conceal.
"Yes, Comrade Commander-in-Chief!" the ministers barked in unison, their voices tinged with anxiety, but unmistakably laced with respect and submission.
The President gave a curt nod and turned his gaze back to the FSB director.
"Aleksey Pavlovich, your men did their job with honor," he said, snapping the director out of his reverie. "Give me a full list of everyone involved in the operation. I'll sign the order for commendation."
Aleksey Pavlovich, the FSB director, simply nodded—but there was a flicker in his eyes that he couldn't hide. It was concern. What had just happened had hit him hard, like a sharp, sobering slap to the face. It reminded everyone in that room that no one is immune to failure. That nothing is guaranteed when it comes to security.
A storm of thoughts was swirling in his mind: We'll find them. Every last one of them. We'll track them down and when we do…
"Understood," he said at last, his voice carrying a subtle tension, like a man clearly out of his comfort zone.
The President gave the room one final sweeping look. His gaze stayed serious for a moment longer before he spoke:
"That's all. You're dismissed."
A Year Later...
Second Civilized Region. Superpower Mu. Port City — Mykal.
The relationship between the Russian Federation and Mu had been steadily warming, and in recent months, it had grown even closer. Mykal, once a quiet and relatively unremarkable town, had found itself at the eye of an economic storm. Entrepreneurs and businessmen who had stepped through the threshold into this new world were eagerly opening up shops, bringing along familiar goods that were entirely foreign to the local populace. The range of products they introduced went from basic everyday items to luxury goods so refined they caused a sensation among the people of Mu.
The locals welcomed these innovations with open arms. Each new store, café, or restaurant felt like a small miracle. Plastic bottles filled with carbonated drinks—odd-tasting at first, but quickly becoming favorites—clothing from Russian brands, perfumes, books translated into the local Mu dialect—all of it quickly evolved from novelty to necessity, and then to full-blown fashion trends feverishly discussed on the city's streets.
Vendors shouting "Russian novelty!" drew the attention of customers, creating a buzz that couldn't be ignored. But the real hit turned out to be Russian board games, which spread like wildfire through Mykal's courtyards and cozy cafés. What was considered a simple pastime for Russians became a symbol of luxury and modernity to the citizens of Mykal, who rushed to experience it firsthand. The winds of change had quite literally swept through the city, filling the hearts of the locals with a mix of wonder and curiosity.
As Russian businesses expanded their reach, Mu's economy began to surge forward. The soaring profits from trade with the First Civilized Region and the Russian Federation brought Mykal a newfound financial stability. Although there were still traders from the Uncivilized Lands in the city, commerce with them had become more of a side note. Massive Russian container ships lined the port, unloading continuously, while the modest wooden vessels of local merchants looked like a pitiful backdrop beside the steel giants of Russia.
It wasn't just trade flows that changed the atmosphere—Russia's military presence at the harbor added a whole new dimension to life in the city. Two second-rank Russian patrol ships, Pobedonosets ("The Victor") and Mudrets ("The Wise"), weren't just a show of military might—they were a statement.
But it wasn't only Mu's economy that saw the benefits of Russian trade. The port was renovated, new equipment brought in, warehouses modernized, and local dockworkers didn't just keep their jobs—they found new purpose through the sweeping changes Russian investment brought with it. The sounds of clanging hammers, mechanical loaders, and boots on concrete echoed everywhere.
The skies above Mykal were clear, yet somehow they felt different now. Russian planes—both commercial and military—were increasingly seen streaking above the azure waters, trailing long white contrails. Mu's airports, even those located in neighboring nations, had been upgraded to accommodate Russia's modern jet aircraft.
In one of the homes overlooking this bustling shoreline, an elderly man sat sipping Russian whiskey. The room was warm and cozy, and despite the sounds of the busy city outside, there was a sense of peaceful solitude within. Gently rocking in his chair, he muttered quietly:
— The world's gone mad. My beloved Mykal is no longer the place I knew just a year ago.
He didn't rush to move. His gaze lingered on the window, his eyes filled with a mix of wonder and confusion. Everything happening around him felt surreal. What was once small and familiar had now grown so big it almost felt overwhelming. The technologies of the outside world, now familiar to many, had crept into every corner of the city.
A young woman entered the room, and the old man snapped out of his thoughts.
— So you finally made it, he said with a soft smile, motioning for her to sit beside him. How was the trip? What do you think of the new car?
— It was great, she replied, sitting in the chair next to him. Those Russian cars are amazing—ours can't even compare! I'm glad I took the time to learn how to drive.
The old man reached into a cabinet, pulled out a bottle of wine, poured her a glass, and handed it over.
— That's good to hear, he said, watching her savor every detail of her new experience. So, what's going on in the capital? How has the city changed?
Her expression turned a shade more serious.
— Mykal... it's too much, too fast. The place is unrecognizable. You're right—the world really has lost its mind.
She sat facing him, her voice calm, though a subtle tension hinted at something deeper.
— You know, she continued, Mu sees a lot more pros than cons in this trade. We're even becoming a sort of middleman for Russian car sales. And the crazy thing? It's not just the rich who are interested—small-time traders and everyday folks are getting involved too. Our streets are full of people gawking at these luxury cars like they're some kind of magic.
She paused to catch her breath. The man gently shook his head.
— Yeah, they're starting to see the upside, he said. But at the same time, who would've thought this trade would change everything around us? Not just the economy—but the city's very soul.
Because of the trade deals with Russia and the flood of new technologies, Mykal was transforming into a major trading hub. The aristocracy and wealthy merchants were snatching up Russian-made cars despite their high price tags and expensive fuel. Still, as everyone knew, a strict law prohibited the export of 21st-century military and advanced scientific technologies to the people of this world.
The Empire of Gra-Valkas. Imperial Capital — Ragna.
The audience chamber of the Imperial Palace radiated a luxury worthy of the most majestic of rulers. Towering vaulted ceilings rose above massive columns adorned with bas-reliefs depicting the Empire's many victories. The black marble floors reflected the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, casting an atmosphere of solemn grandeur. In this place, every word sounded like a decree of fate.
— 'Summit of the Eleven Nations' is about to begin. How are the preparations coming along?" The Emperor's voice rang out with authority, though free of undue tension.
— "Your Imperial Majesty, everything is ready. We await your direct command," the military commanders responded in unison, pressing their hands to their chests in a gesture of total subordination.
Among those gathered stood out Mobarl, the head of the Foreign Affairs Bureau.
— "Your Imperial Majesty," he began with a smirk, "with this plan, the weaklings of this world will fall at your feet. Our supremacy will be undisputed."
His words were met with a general murmur of approval, but suddenly, another voice broke through the room's air of confident agreement.
— "I have concerns — two in particular, esteemed gentlemen." His voice was firm, almost defiant. Every head turned toward Hamidall, the chief of the Bureau of Intelligence and Information Warfare. His expression remained composed, but tension flickered in his eyes.
The Emperor raised an eyebrow slightly and inclined his head, giving him permission to continue.
— "Yes, Hamidall?" he asked with a trace of curiosity. "What are they?"
— "As I've said before, we face two critical threats: the Holy Mirishial Empire and the Russian Federation. I've lost six intelligence teams in Mirishial, and seven others haven't even made it into Russian territory. These are the detailed reports regarding both threats. Please review them," said the intelligence chief, stepping forward with the documents.
Caesar, a proud and prominent figure of the military elite, couldn't hold back. His laughter burst out, sharp and mocking, echoing off the marble walls.
— "Ahaha! Hamidall, you're going to infect us with your baseless paranoia!" he said between laughs. "There's no way we're behind those savages technologically! Nothing and no one in this world can stop the advance of His Imperial Majesty's forces!"
But Hamidall wasn't backing down. His face reddened, and his voice rose, sharp enough to cut stone.
— "Are you listening to me, Caesar?! I lost thirteen teams! Thirteen highly trained operatives! That's unprecedented compared to the garbage we've dealt with until now! Read the damn reports! They were written in the blood and sweat of my people. The Russian and Mirishial militaries have projects that we've only dreamed of — some that we haven't even conceptualized yet! Show some damn responsibility and read them, Caesar. If we launch a military operation now, we'll be the ones to pay the price!"
He practically shot out of his seat, eyes burning with fury as he stared down Caesar. The tension in the room skyrocketed — several of the other participants instinctively averted their gazes. Kaizal, clearly about to retaliate, was abruptly silenced by a single, controlled gesture from the Emperor. His raised hand spoke volumes, and both men returned to their seats without another word.
— "I heard you, Hamidall," the Emperor said calmly, though his tone carried unmistakable authority. "Detail everything regarding the Holy Mirishial Empire and the Russian Federation in a full report and deliver it to my Chancellery. Kurtz, take the documents and deliver them to me personally."
— "Yes, Your Imperial Majesty," Hamidall stood, placed his hand to his chest, and gave a respectful nod. The Chief Secretary of the Imperial Chancellery mirrored his gesture precisely.
The Emperor paused for a moment, his gaze drifting thoughtfully across the room.
— "We've taken Hamidall's concerns into consideration, but the operation remains in motion. Caesar — a new order. Do not engage any vessels bearing the identifiers listed in the report. Mobarl — establish communication with the Russian envoys. As for the rest of you, your assignments remain unchanged."
— "Understood, Your Imperial Majesty!" they barked in unison, once again pressing hands to their chests.
— "Then this session is adjourned…" declared the herald. And as his voice faded, the crème de la crème of Gra-Valkas society began to file out of the chamber.
The Holy Mirishial Empire. Port City of Cartalpas.
Cartalpas was one of the largest port cities in the Holy Mirishial Empire, second in size only to the capital. Its architecture blended the grandeur of the old world with modern design — sweeping buildings of glass and magically reinforced stone curved in graceful arcs, adorned with abstract patterns and ornamental flourishes. There was an ever-present sense of majesty and a striving for greatness, yet it was all balanced with a sense of disciplined restraint and pragmatic function. Despite its modern appearance, the underlying technology of the Mirishial Empire felt somewhat archaic. Magical devices resembling electrical systems — manacomms, and other arcane instruments — were still widely used to manage production and support the city's infrastructure.
The city of Cartalpas itself was dominated by massive port installations, which exuded both strength and precision. From time to time, groups of workers could be seen tending to every corner of the streets with meticulous care, while vibrant flags and banners fluttered atop rooftops. A festive energy filled the air, as delegations from across the world began arriving for the "Conference of the Eleven Nations."
The city's mayor once again felt the pressure mounting inside his head, as if it might burst. Nothing had been left to chance. Every nook and cranny had been scrubbed clean, every street meticulously prepared to welcome high-level foreign guests. Vagrants and "undesirable elements" had been discreetly removed, and welcome banners hung from building facades to greet the arriving dignitaries. Everything was going according to plan — but both the mayor and his staff understood: their work wasn't just important — it was critical to maintaining order and ensuring the success of this monumental event.
— "Delegation from the Kingdom of Torquia, First Civilized Region, has arrived! Seven line ships and one magical flagship,"a voice echoed through the air from the manacomm, the words spreading like ripples on the wind. A soft breeze carried the buzz of anticipation, as if the city of
Cartalpas itself were holding its breath.
From every pier and street corner, people watched with gleaming eyes full of curiosity and awe, fixated on the horizon — where grand ships seemed to hang in the sky like marionettes, ready to glide into the harbor.
A team of guides and escorts set out to receive the delegation.
"Delegation from the Principality of Agartha, First Region, has arrived! Six state-of-the-art magical warships and two civilian vessels."
The announcer and Vice Admiral Bronz were thoroughly enjoying the event. Each nation taking part in this gathering of global powers made no attempt to hide its military might — eager to flaunt its strength and dominance. In many ways, it was like an unspoken contest among the nations. For Bronz, it felt like attending a military parade — he relished every moment of the spectacle.
— "Those little boats didn't impress me," Bronz muttered under his breath, eyes still scanning the fleets. "Compared to the Magical Zero Fleet, they're not even in the same league…"
Recent memories flickered in his mind — the maneuvers of the Zero Fleet, which he'd witnessed firsthand during joint exercises between the Mirishial navy and the western island nations. He had held his breath then, savoring the thrill of seeing true naval power in action. Bronz had longed to witness the raw might of fleets from the other transferred nations — the Gra Valkas Empire, which had swallowed up the nation of Leifor, and the Russian Federation, which had obliterated the Third Civilized Region's pride — the Parpaldian Empire — shattering it into seventy-two independent states.
— "A vessel from the Gra-Valkas Empire has arrived."
Bronz looked up. There it was, on the horizon. And it wasn't just a vessel — it was a floating fortress. Its sheer size was incomprehensible — it defied all logic that something that massive could even stay afloat.
— "Good Lord… what is that?!"
Bronz snatched up his binoculars, trying to get a clearer view of the approaching behemoth. It was an Atlastar-class superdreadnought — the pride of the Gra-Valkas Empire. Even knowing of its existence, seeing it in person was a whole different experience.
The Atlastar slowly approached the pier, casting its colossal shadow over the ships of Torquia and Agartha. The proud sailing warships of those nations now looked like miniature models, dwarfed by the gargantuan presence of the oceanic titan.
The bystanders at the dock froze in shock. Some of them just stood there, mouths agape, unable to take their eyes off the dreadnought.
But before the crowd could even begin to process what they were seeing, the port was thrown into a fresh commotion.
— "Mr. Bronz! A delegation from the Russian Federation is arriving!" — came the voice of an aide holding a manacom. Bronz tore his eyes away from the Atlastar with effort, trying to pull himself together.
— "W-what is that?!" Bronz whispered in disbelief as he took the binoculars from his assistant. The sense of shock in his body only grew stronger with every second. What he saw through the lenses could only be described as a nightmare — an armada he never imagined would appear here. If his aide hadn't nudged a chair closer, he probably would've just collapsed to the ground.
— "The Russian delegation is here! Twenty ships. I—I can't even classify them," the aide reported, his voice carrying a weight of sheer horror and awe.
Russian vessels appeared on the horizon. Among them were twenty ships of various types, including tankers. The flagship was the nuclear-powered battlecruiser Pyotr Velikiy (Peter the Great). The fleet also included two nuclear-powered aircraft-carrying cruisers and three aircraft carriers. A short time later, squadrons of MiG-29 fighters roared overhead, streaking through the sky and leaving behind vapor trails.
Their deafening roar ripped through the air like the bellow of ancient dragons. These war machines, built on technologies that this world had yet to even imagine, seemed like living embodiments of power and destruction.
— "This... this can't be real..." Bronz murmured, lowering the binoculars. He was shaken to his very core.
The Russian ships drew closer, and the crowd at the harbor stirred once again, caught between awe and terror. Sailors from Torquia and Agartha now stood silent, too stunned to speak as the full extent of the power imbalance dawned on them. The sailors aboard the Atlastar simply stood on deck smoking their cigarettes, watching the aircraft streak across the sky. None of them could find the words to express what they were feeling. Some trembled in fear. Others, in admiration.
— "The delegation of the Russian Federation has arrived from the East!" the manacom called out again. His words rang in the ears of the townspeople like thunder from a clear sky.
The Russian Federation had prepared for this moment with utmost seriousness, fully aware that this show of force had to be delivered with maximum impact. Based on assessments from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the General Staff of the Russian Armed Forces, it was decided to dispatch a powerful tactical group — with nuclear submarines held in reserve to ensure Russian military reach at any distance, providing a silent but ever-present threat beneath the waves.
— "Excellent. First impressions? Better than we hoped," said one of the "representatives" from the diplomatic mission, observing the unfolding scene. "Let's hope these jungle folk finally figure out who they're dealing with before they try anything stupid."
— "And if they don't, we'll turn black and start peeling," another representative replied with a smirk, checking over his gear — a sarcastic Russian phrase meaning "we'll teach them the hard way."
— "Five minutes to go."
— "Roger that," the first one responded.