Chapter 34. Conference of Leaders of 11 countries. Part 2.
Imperial Embassy
The Imperial Embassy in Cartalpas rose above the surrounding buildings like a radiant beacon — a symbol of the Holy Mirishial Empire's grandeur and unshakable power. Sunlight, refracted through the stained-glass windows, scattered a kaleidoscope of colors across the walls, creating an atmosphere of majesty and solemn celebration.
Aleksey Petrov, a well-groomed man with a sharp, intelligent gaze, walked at the head of the Russian delegation, accompanied by his deputy, Anton Vorobyov. They did their best to keep up with the bustling guide, who was all too eager to fulfill his duties. With genuine diplomatic charm, Aleksey asked questions about the history and architectural features of the building, not forgetting to sprinkle his comments with compliments — handed out like rare coins, always tasteful and perfectly timed.
"It's beautiful, no doubt... but man, they sure built a hell of a lot in here," Anton thought to himself.
Finally, after a brief tour and a quick inspection of the premises, the Russian delegates entered a spacious atrium buzzing with life. Ambassadors, dressed in their finest attire, exchanged greetings, caught up on the latest news, and of course, indulged in the exquisite delicacies laid out on tables draped in crisp white linen. The air was filled with the soft murmur of conversation, mingled with the gentle clinking of crystal glasses. There were gourmet hors d'oeuvres, exotic fruits, and even some strange drinks whose aromas stirred both curiosity and caution.
Off to the side, like immovable cliffs, sat the delegation from Gra Valkas. Their grim expressions and cold stares radiated tension, as if they were completely detached from the lively atmosphere around them, lost in their own grim thoughts. The Russian representatives took their designated seats, their faces polite but betraying a hint of unease. This was their first appearance on the world stage of this new realm, and the air was thick with tension — like static before a lightning strike. It was the kind of moment that called for absolute composure and professionalism.
"Is this really happening?" Aleksey thought to himself.
"Boss, we got some shady types heading toward the reception. Two are armed, one's unarmed.
Let Security know," came a voice over the radio from one of the guards.
"Copy that," replied the commander of the "representatives" detail.
Just then, a man approached the Russian delegation — someone whose flamboyant attire and easygoing manner instantly drew attention. He wore a long, layered robe in wild, almost fluorescent colors, creating a look that was equal parts extravagant and slightly ridiculous. On his head was a small cap adorned with brightly colored feathers, and his movements were smooth, almost dance-like. This was Magar, a representative from the Principality of Agartha.
"Greetings! You must be the delegation from Russia, am I right?" His voice carried a subtle note of irony, yet remained warm and friendly. "I'm Magar, from the Principality of Agartha, here on behalf of the Foreign Mandate."
With those words, he extended his hand, smiling broadly with open sincerity.
"The Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Russian Federation. Aleksey. A pleasure to meet you," Aleksey replied, shaking Magar's hand. Despite the man's strange clothing, Aleksey instantly sensed that he was an intelligent and perceptive interlocutor.
"Mr. Aleksey, it's truly an honor to meet you in person," Magar continued, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Your ships made a powerful impression. The rumors of your military might, spreading like wildfire across the Worlds, were no exaggeration. In a realm where everything is built on a magical foundation, you've advanced through science and scientific achievement. Unheard of! Even the superpower Mu, which prides itself on scientific innovation, still relies on magic in many areas. But I've heard that for your people, science is the very cornerstone, and through it, you've reached astonishing heights. My sovereign is quite interested in visiting your nation."
Alexey, an experienced diplomat, listened to Magar attentively, fully aware that behind the courteous words lay a deeper interest—perhaps even a touch of admiration.
"Mr. Magar, thank you for such kind words," he replied with a polite smile. "We would be happy to welcome your delegation at any time. We're always glad to share our achievements and experience."
The conversation with the Agarthian representative gave them much to consider. Interest from other nations—that was precisely the kind of starting point they had hoped to reach.
A few minutes later, the Russian delegation, represented by Alexey and Anton, turned their attention to the representatives of the Annonrial Empire. Alexey noticed something peculiar: each of them had two wings — one white, one black.
Intelligence reports stated that Annonrial was a civilization controlling a vast portion of the southern continent. Though they were the only representatives from their region at the "Conference of Eleven Nations," the Annonrial Empire had a longstanding policy of isolation. Their contact with the outside world was limited to a small island called Bushpaka-Latan, where trade and diplomacy were permitted. Officially, Annonrial was still considered a "non-civilized" nation, but Russian analysts—like hunters stalking elusive prey—closely monitored their every move, knowing all too well that behind an unremarkable facade might lie something far more formidable.
Their presence at the conference was likely nothing more than theater, a performance for appearances' sake. Intelligence indicated that life on Bushpaka-Latan was fairly advanced, but rumors about the mainland were riddled with contradictions. Satellite imagery from reconnaissance satellites showed clusters of lights, indicative of sprawling cities with a level of development on par with Mirishial or Gra Valkas. And yet, the fleet they brought to Cartalpas consisted of old, weather-worn sailships — no different from the vessels used in backwater nations.
"More smoke and mirrors," Alexey thought to himself. "They're hiding their real power."
Like a seasoned operative closing in on a mysterious target, Alexey Petrov—having received an unofficial green light from leadership—decided to personally engage the Annonrial delegation.
He approached them with a polite, yet firm smile.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of tension, "if I may ask—are you from the Annonrial Empire?"
The only reply he received was a vague, dismissive "Uff…"
The man he addressed — a winged figure with white mustaches and a stone-cold expression—offered no response. His eyes held a sort of detached disdain, as if Alexey were little more than empty air to him. His face didn't so much as twitch, a perfect, unmoving mask.
"Fascinating…" Alexey mused.
He wasn't offended in the least. In fact, the coldness was a welcome contrast to the pompous arrogance and fake politeness of some of the other delegates. "Let's see what's behind this act of detachment," he thought.
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you," he continued, keeping his tone diplomatic. "My name is Alexey Petrov. I represent the Russian Federation. My government is deeply interested in your country, and I hope we'll have the opportunity to establish diplomatic ties in the future."
The Annonrial took a moment before replying, his voice casual—almost lazy, as if he were doing Alexey a favor.
"Ah, I see. As you're probably aware, all diplomatic matters with us or the peoples of the southern continent are handled through Bushpaka-Latan. As for establishing formal ties—we don't engage in direct trade. I hope that's clear."
His tone was flat, purely factual. It was obvious the Annonrial had no interest in either the conference or Russia. But Alexey, ever the intelligence man, understood that this restrained response was far more telling than a loud denial. He sensed that beneath these indifferent words, a secret was lurking.
"Is this policy—restricting contact to Bushpaka-Latan—applied to all foreign nations?" Alexey asked, careful not to let his curiosity show.
"Yes," the Annonrial said without changing his expression. "Under our regulations, no foreigner is permitted to set foot on our mainland."
Alexey noted that the Annonrials showed no sign of racial or national bias. "Or they're just good at pretending not to," he corrected himself mentally.
"Would visiting Bushpaka-Latan give us a full picture of your country," he asked, pressing gently, "comparable to a visit to your mainland?"
"Y-e-e-s…?" The Annonrial hesitated slightly, clearly caught off guard. "Bushpaka-Latan is part of the Empire. It serves as a reception hub for foreign representatives from the southern world, so it's not unlike our other cities. Though, there may be some… cultural differences. Why do you ask?"
For the first time, the Annonrial's face displayed something faintly readable—some mix of confusion and surprise.
"Well," Alexey said casually, "according to our data, your mainland appears significantly more developed than Bushpaka-Latan. I simply found that… curious. Just an observation, nothing more."
His words were spoken with a light smile, but his tone had an edge of steel.
In that moment, the Annonrial delegate—and his entire group—broke into a nervous sweat, as if something vital had been touched. Their glances grew wary and tense. But then came a loud announcement:
"In one minute, the Conference will begin. Honorable delegates, please take your seats," called a herald, his voice echoing across the hall through mana-amplifiers.
"Well then, time to go," Petrov said with a slight nod. "It was a pleasure meeting you. I'm sure we'll speak again."
With those words, Petrov and his aides exited the hall, leaving the Annonrials behind. They watched the Russians leave, their expressions unreadable—except for one thing: confusion.
"Typical outsiders… 'Russia'... What do they want from us, anyway?" the Annonrial murmured under his breath, watching the departing Russians as if trying to decipher their true intent. He adjusted his wing nervously and turned to follow his delegation into the conference chamber.
Imperial Embassy Hall.
A solemn stillness reigned in the vast and majestic hall of the Imperial Embassy, broken only by the low hum of mana crystals that powered magical communications throughout the building. A herald, adorned in richly embroidered robes, announced the opening of the session. It was here, around this massive table of dark lacquered wood, that the fates of entire nations—not just one—were decided. Representatives of the most powerful countries of the New World had gathered, their names whispered in awe by common folk and their political weight enough to shake entire civilizations.
The hall itself seemed carved from solid stone, and its towering ceiling, painted with scenes from ancient myths, vanished into the shadowy heights. The glow of numerous lanterns and mana crystals cast intricate patterns of light and shadow, highlighting the grandeur and gravity of the moment. This year, the "Conference of the Eleven Nations" wasn't just a meeting of the world's strongest powers—it was a once-in-a-lifetime event. For the first time ever, two transferred nations were in attendance: the Gra Valkas Empire, whose boots had recently crushed the pride of what was once the mighty superpower Leifor, and the Russian Federation, whose military might had ended the existence of the Parpaldian Empire.
In attendance this time were representatives from: the Holy Mirishial Empire, the Kingdom of Mu, the Kingdom of Emor, the Gra Valkas Empire, the Russian Federation, the Principality of Agartha, the Kingdom of Torquia, the Grand Duchy of Pandora, the Magicaraich Community, the Union of Nigrat, and the Annorial Empire.
The atmosphere was thick with tension. It felt as if the slightest misstep or poorly chosen word could trigger irreversible consequences.
Suddenly, the envoy from the Kingdom of Emor raised his clawed, ring-adorned hand and stepped forward. A two-meter-tall giant, the draconoid named Moriaul, bore not only horns—a sign of noble lineage—but also glowing magma-hued sclera with narrow yellow pupils that seemed to pierce straight through everyone in the room.
"I'll introduce myself for the benefit of the new delegates. I am Moriaul, of the Kingdom of Emor," the draconoid growled, his voice trembling as it echoed off the hall's stone walls. "Before we begin, I have a message of utmost importance for everyone here."
He paused, sweeping the room with his eyes, letting his gaze linger briefly on the delegation from the Russian Federation before continuing.
"Two winter solstices ago, our celestial seer performed a ritual of prophecy."
His words brought an instant hush. All those familiar with the accuracy of their oracles leaned in, listening intently.
"The god of time and space parted the murky veil before our eyes. The Ravernal Empire is returning…"
His voice struck like thunder on a clear day. The tension in the room surged a hundredfold. Nervous murmurs, bordering on panic, erupted among the delegates—especially those from the old world powers.
"No… It can't be…" muttered the representative from the Kingdom of Torquia, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his brow. "If that's true… if those legends our ancestors left behind are real… then we're all doomed!"
Moriaul raised a hand to silence the room, then continued, staring straight ahead.
"Due to the spatial distortions we were unable to pierce through, we don't know the precise time or location of Ravernal's return. But thanks to Russian mathematicians, we've managed to calculate the likely window," —he gestured toward the Russian ambassador before continuing— "from seven to fourteen winter solstices. That period will be the most dangerous."
His words echoed through the chamber like a warning bell.
"We still don't know whether we can stand against them—or how true the legends are. All of our forefathers' scrolls were lost when the capital of the Dragon Empire fell during the war with Ravernal, and after our crushing defeat, no records were kept. But the cursed artifacts recovered from the ruins make it clear—the Ancient Magical Empire reached heights we can't even dream of. We are asking everyone here to avoid pointless conflicts, to refrain from bloodshed. We urge you to strengthen your forces and your alliances, so that we can face the Ravernal Empire with full force. This world must unite to fight this abomination!"
The hall erupted in a wave of discussions. The whispers quickly rose into a clamor, and it seemed that chaos was about to break out.
Suddenly, cutting through the noise, came a woman's laugh—clear, sharp, and filled with mockery. All heads turned toward the sound. A woman in her early thirties, with a haughty expression, continued laughing, unbothered by the glares directed her way.
"Ha-ha-ha, I'm sorry, that probably seemed a little rude," she said after composing herself, brushing back her dark hair. "I am Cielia Oudwin, from the Foreign Affairs Bureau of the Gra Valkas Empire. And honestly, I'm ashamed to admit I've never heard of your so-called 'Magical Empire.' But the fact that you pompous, self-important savages are terrified of some ancient boogeyman? That is what truly makes me laugh."
She swept her gaze across the room, letting it rest briefly on the Russian delegation, before continuing—as if she had just revised her entire speech in her head.
— You call yourselves the great powers of this world, and yet the first thing I hear are talks of fortune-telling and fate-reading? And this is what you consider worthy of global leadership? Our marine boots trampled across the whole of Leifor, and no matter how weak it had become, it was still regarded as a superpower. A summit of eleven nations should be a council of might and reason—but what I've witnessed here feels more like a circus act with crystal balls and palm readings.
Her audacity and insolence seemed to stun the majority of the assembly.
— How dare you speak like that?! — hissed the flushed delegate from the Kingdom of Torquvia, his voice pitching into a sharp falsetto. — You're nothing but a petty upstart, and yet you dare speak to us this way?!
Moriaul, however, remained unmoved by the bold outburst of the Gra Valkas representative. He simply scratched the bridge of his nose with a clawed forefinger, his tone calm but laced with a faint, mocking edge.
— Child, you clearly have no grasp of what magic is capable of in the right hands. And yet you spew such vile, senseless words. Your people—just like the Russian Federation—are a nation with little magical aptitude, and yet the Russians seem far wiser than their years. That is why we place no hopes on you.
— Watch your mouth, you ancient lizard! — Cielia snapped, her cheeks burning red with fury as she clenched her fists. — You have no idea what science is capable of! Our nation has no need for your empty palm readings and hollow prophecies!
— Look who's talking, — Alexey murmured under his breath, sipping a drink from a crystal goblet—something between coffee and juice. "Interesting drink," he thought. "I'll have to ask where they got this."
Raising his hand, the Russian delegate decided to intervene before the tension could spiral into open conflict.
— Cielia, was it? — he said, looking at her with a calm, unreadable expression. — My name is Alexey. I represent the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Russian Federation. And regarding those so-called 'palm readings'—I should clarify that they were developed by our top doctors of mathematics and analysts, in cooperation with Emorian scientists and even the cosmic seer himself. Magic influences events here, and the forecasts based on it are as accurate as theoretically possible. Eighty percent? That's unheard of. And if you factor in the accuracy of previous predictions—ones that did come true—we're talking about ninety-seven point ninety-nine percent. Do you understand what that means, Cielia?
Cielia, visibly taken aback, looked at Alexey and muttered:
— No…
— Then your criticism is baseless and completely unfounded, — he concluded, scanning the room as if anticipating a response.
After that, the hall erupted into hushed murmurs again. The air buzzed with tension. How had this not turned into a brawl? Only the gods knew.
After a brief pause, the representative of the superpower Mu took the floor. His voice was cold and resolute.
— We bring charges against the Gra Valkas Empire. We propose a twelve-year embargo on Gra Valkas for its military conquest of the Kingdom of Irnat. Furthermore, we accuse the Empire of escalating the current conflict. If we let Gra Valkas' behavior slide now, it may one day lead to the collapse of global order.
Taking the floor next was the representative from the Holy Mirishial Empire. His voice echoed across the hall through mana-amplified speakers, delivering his message with unwavering force.
— We fully support Mu's statement. The Empire of Gra Valkas is destabilizing long-standing equilibrium and global order. Therefore, we issue an ultimatum: Withdraw from all occupied territories in the Second Civilized Region within one month. Failure to comply, or ignoring this deadline, will result in armed intervention by the Holy Mirishial Empire, in alliance with Mu, to forcibly liberate the occupied territories.
The composed yet commanding tone of the Mirishial representative made the entire hall flinch—everyone except the Russians and the Gra Valkas delegation. Dozens of eyes turned to Cielia. She stood still, unbothered, like a statue carved from stone. She seemed truly unshakable.
After a short pause, she finally spoke—her voice calm and unyielding.
— In the name of our Emperor, His Imperial Majesty Gralux, we issue our own ultimatum. All present nations are to bow before our Emperor. In return, we promise your countries prosperity. But if you defy His Will and refuse to swear your allegiance, then you shall receive no mercy and no quarter! Silence will be taken as dissent. So, I ask you now—will you swear loyalty to His Imperial Majesty right here and now?
For a moment, silence reigned. Then came an explosion of laughter and outrage from the delegates.
"What's that bug think she's doing?"
"Savage!"
"Getting a bit full of yourself, aren't you, you worthless wretch?"
"Pathetic idiot!"
"She's clearly delirious!"
A storm of insults and indignation erupted, all aimed at the delegation from the Gra Valkas Empire. Only the representatives from the media, Russia, Mu, and Annornrial remained silent. The journalists stared at Cielia defiantly. The Russians looked on with mild interest. The Mu delegation appeared cautious. But the envoys from Annornrial watched her with such unreadable indifference that it sent a chill through the room.
"Just as we thought," Cielia said, her eyes sweeping across the assembly. "None of you wish to stand under the wing of His Imperial Majesty. So be it. The boots of our soldiers will march across your lands and raze your cities to the ground! If you insist on seeing the might of our weapons firsthand, His Imperial Majesty has no objections. Once you come to your senses, you may contact the Foreign Affairs Bureau. His ultimatum has been delivered. Glory to…"
She froze mid-sentence. The Russian diplomat had calmly raised his hand, and with the help of the event organizer, the commotion quickly died down.
"Thank you…" Alexey began, sweeping his gaze over the chamber. "I would like to inform everyone that the Government of the Russian Federation will adopt a stance of armed neutrality in any future conflict."
The room fell silent. Interest in Cielia evaporated, and all eyes turned to the head of the Russian delegation.
"We do not side with anyone, nor do we support anyone," Alexey continued.
"We see this as a pointless waste of time. Furthermore, we fully agree with Mr. Moriaul. It is imperative that we prepare for a large-scale war with the Ravernal Empire. That is all. Thank you."
"The first day of the conference is now officially adjourned," the herald announced.
An hour after the end of the conference, in one of the luxury suites of a five-star hotel, Cielia met with a representative of the Russian delegation. The atmosphere in the room was calm, yet undeniably tense. A man in his forties, dressed in a sharp black suit and seated in an armchair, rose to his feet and gave a small nod in greeting.
"Welcome, Cielia."
"Do you have them?" she asked without any formalities, cutting straight to the point.
The man gave a faint smirk.
"Yes, safe and sound. We fished them out of the Sea of Okhotsk."
Her voice trembled slightly, though she struggled to maintain composure.
"…Can you send them back?"
"We'll be keeping twenty. As a gesture of goodwill and for security guarantees. The rest—will be returned at the agreed-upon location, as discussed," he replied evenly.
Cielia gave a silent nod, weighing his words carefully in her mind.
"Al… alright," she muttered, nodding ever so slightly.
"Excellent," he concluded calmly.
At 3 a.m. Moscow time the next day, special combat units of the GU (Main Directorate) escorted thirty-six Gra Valkasian scouts aboard the superdreadnought Atlastar. The massive ship loomed over the water like a steel colossus.
The returning Gra Valkasian spies looked utterly spent. Some of them could barely stand; their eyes betrayed the deep exhaustion and malnourishment they had endured. Everything had started with what was meant to be a bold reconnaissance mission.
They'd been given one simple order—infiltrate the territory of the Russian Federation, study its military might, and gather as much intelligence on its weapons and equipment as possible. But none of them had been prepared for what awaited them.
The mission began with a cautious deployment of fifty-six agents on three small submersible craft. Their route took them through the Sea of Okhotsk—a harsh, unforgiving body of water.
Two weeks in, their food supplies began running out, and the agents—like something out of an old sailor's tale—were plagued by thirst. By the start of the fourth week, they had become nothing more than emaciated shadows, shivering from cold and starvation. The intelligence force of a so-called superpower, once proud and self-assured, found itself helpless in the face of raw nature.
When they were eventually discovered by Russian fishermen and handed over to the FSB, the Gra Valkasian operatives feared the worst. They were certain they would be tortured—after all, in their minds, the "uncivilized lands" were filled with barbarians. But the reality was far more sophisticated.
Instead of interrogators, they were met by psychotherapists and information warfare specialists. The exhausted agents were placed in clean holding cells, given beds and hot meals. That unexpected kindness broke them psychologically far more effectively than any physical abuse could have.
"Torture is outdated," one Counterintelligence officer explained to his colleague as they observed the process. "Modern methods work on the mind. We don't need to break their bodies—we just break their will."
Each spy was interrogated with methodical precision, wringing out every last drop of intelligence like squeezing water from an old rag. Through careful manipulation and psychological pressure, they were made to talk—about everything they knew.
By dawn, all gathered intelligence had been compiled and sent to the analytical centers. As soon as the Gra Valkas Empire's diplomatic mission learned of the fate of their agents, they issued an official request for their return.
That same day, at six a.m. Moscow time, the Gra Valkasian delegation departed Cartalpas, heading west. And this was only the beginning — of a large-scale conflict that was about to erupt on the high seas.