The call of Darkness. Part 1.
The Russian Federation
A month after extensive discussions and strategic planning, the Russian Federation officially began expanding its sphere of influence into the eastern region. Recognizing the significance of this step, the government initiated plans to establish diplomatic relations with Gahara Thearchy and the Kingdom of Fenn, the Russian Federation's closest neighbors. The strategic importance of these nations was undeniable—they sat at the crossroads of major trade and naval routes, making them highly desirable for Russia's expansion efforts.
To carry out this diplomatic mission, a delegation was assembled with meticulous planning and careful selection. As part of the initiative, an operational naval squadron was dispatched from the naval base in Baltiysk to the Kingdom of Fenn. This squadron included a Project 956 Sovremenny-class destroyer, Nastoichivy ("Persistent"), along with two Project 11540 Yastreb-class frigates, Yastreb ("Hawk") and Neustrashimy ("Fearless"). These warships were not only a display of Russia's military strength but also a symbol of authority meant to reinforce diplomatic efforts.
The Kingdom of Fenn was located on an island geographically resembling an inverted comma. It spanned approximately 160 kilometers in length and 60 kilometers in width, positioned to the east of the Russian Federation, near the border with the Parpaldian Empire. Further east, across a vast sea, lay another island—the home of the Gahara Thearchy.
Intelligence reports suggested that the Kingdom of Fenn closely resembled Edo-period Japan in terms of culture and societal structure, with all its customs, traditions, and strict adherence to etiquette. This, however, raised concerns—if the local population held the same rigid values as their historical Japanese counterparts, the Russian diplomats would not only need to be mindful of historical nuances but also exercise exceptional tact in their interactions. A single misplaced word could result in a diplomatic disaster.
The diplomatic mission was carefully structured, including only experts fluent in the languages of the Asian region and deeply knowledgeable about its cultures, traditions, and political and social frameworks. Historians specializing in the evolution of eastern states and their relationships with neighboring powers were also brought in. The primary goal was not just to establish contact but to forge strong, long-term relations that could pave the way for both economic and military-political cooperation.
The mission set before the diplomats was ambitious yet clear: to secure friendly relations with the Kingdom of Fenn while ensuring access to a new market that could serve as a key leverage point in the struggle for regional influence. Of particular importance was the potential construction of a naval base on these islands—an initiative that would significantly bolster the Russian Federation's military presence in the area.
The Kingdom of Fenn. The Royal Capital — Amanoki.
Atop a high hill stood the royal palace, surrounded by lush gardens overflowing with greenery, offering a breathtaking view of the surrounding lands—endless fields stretching toward mountain ranges that met the sea at the horizon. At the heart of this grandeur sat King of Swords, Shihan, gazing intently at the vast expanse of his domain. To him, nothing held greater importance than his blade—it was both his most loyal friend and his fiercest enemy. Today, Shihan awaited the arrival of his advisors—his finest palace warriors, master swordsmen who would bring him the latest news.
In the Kingdom of Fenn, magic did not exist in the way it was known elsewhere. There were no mages conjuring fireballs or ice storms. Yet, magic did exist here—but it was different. Manacoms, peculiar devices, allowed individuals with even the slightest mana reserves to communicate over long distances, transmitting messages through magical stones encased in gold. A wyvern rider, for example, possessing the standard amount of mana for a human, could relay messages through a mana communicator built into his armet. However, someone with a stronger magical presence could communicate without such devices, transmitting thoughts directly through sheer concentration.
Beings with immense mana reserves—such as dragon-like humanoids, true dragons, and high elves—had the ability to communicate telepathically, transmitting thoughts and emotions directly, without the need for words.
But let us return to the Kingdom of Fenn. Here, magic was not the defining force of the land. Instead, strength of spirit, valor, and warrior's honor were held above all else.
In this kingdom, wealth and beauty mattered little. What truly defined a person was their skill with a blade. Fenn respected only those who mastered their craft. Live by the sword, die by the sword, for weakness and an inability to wield a weapon against an enemy were unforgivable. Here, in this land, courage and honor dictated everything. Swordsmen who failed to prove their worth were mocked and cast out by society. These laws and traditions were as ancient as the kingdom itself, unchanged through the ages.
Shihan sat on his throne, lost in thought. He knew that today, every action he took mattered. He was the living embodiment of his kingdom's traditions, and his sword, which never left his side, was an extension of himself. He was not just a king—he was the very symbol of his people, their strength, and their resolve. And despite all his grandeur, Shihan knew he could never afford to show weakness, for if he did, his people would turn away from him.
At that moment, the grand doors of the hall swung open, and a servant stepped inside—a man with long hair tied into a braid, dressed in a white kimono. Bowing deeply, he spoke:
— My king, the swordsmen have gathered at your command and await your arrival.
Shihan did not turn to face him. Instead, he continued to look out over the city, as if collecting his thoughts. He was ready. He knew that today was vital for his kingdom, that every word and every action carried weight. He had confidence in his strength, yet he could still feel the burden of responsibility pressing down upon him. His people, his sword, his honor—everything was at stake.
— Very well. Let's go, he said, his voice as firm as ever. Rising from his seat, he made his way toward the doors, prepared to meet those who awaited his command.
The Council Hall of the Palace.
Was bathed in the shifting shadows cast by towering lacquered columns, their surfaces adorned with masterful carvings. These shadows stretched across the polished marble floor, creating an ever-changing dance of light and darkness. In the very center of the chamber stood Shihan, his gaze fixed on something beyond the reach of ordinary men—focused, intense, as if he could see what others could not. His face, no longer youthful, bore the calm expression of a seasoned samurai. In his hand, he held a small folding fan, occasionally waving it with measured ease, yet there was an underlying power in every motion.
Shihan was clad in a traditional kimono, embroidered with gold and silver threads, the emblem of his nation displayed proudly on his back. His posture was straight, his movements fluid and precise. Absentmindedly, he stroked his goatee, as if carefully weighing each word he was about to utter. His every gesture was deliberate, as controlled as the strikes of a master swordsman, and his eyes held the unwavering confidence and wisdom of a ruler who had spent years in service to his people.
— I am glad to see you all here, alive and well, — Shihan said, offering a slight smile, a gesture meant to reassure his advisors. His tone was calm, yet carried an unspoken strength that immediately commanded attention.
The swordsmen standing before him—mighty and fearless in battle—bowed in respect. But as Shihan continued, his voice took on a sharper edge, cold and unyielding, leaving no room for doubt.
— Parpaldia offers us an alliance and protection in exchange for control over our southern forests for the next five centuries. But tell me—who exactly do they intend to protect us from? They themselves are the greatest threat. That is why I have declined their offer without hesitation. It is possible that we are already standing on the precipice of war, and we must be prepared for it. I have also sent a message to the God-King of Gahara Thearchy —he will come to our aid. We live by the sword, and we die by the sword. Even the mightiest empires must come to understand that we cannot be broken, let alone subdued.
Tension filled the air. Yet, despite the weight of his words, the expressions of the swordsmen remained as unreadable as stone masks. In this kingdom, weakness was not tolerated. And though each of them likely felt the racing of their own hearts, they would never allow their emotions to show. The principles of Fenn were clear—they were men of the sword, and that defined everything.
Shihan let a brief silence hang in the hall, his gaze sweeping over each of those present. He searched their eyes for the same determination, the same unshakable confidence that burned within him. When he found what he was looking for, he gave a slight nod of approval before speaking again.
— What are your thoughts, my councilors?
For a long moment, silence reigned. Then, at last, one of the oldest among the ten Masters of the Sword, Motam, spoke. His voice carried the weight of experience and respect, though there was a trace of unease beneath it.
— King Shihan, this may not be the time to bring it up, but what of the envoys from the Eastern Ocean?
Shihan furrowed his brow slightly, turning his head toward Motam in contemplation. His mind was already beginning to weave through possible strategies. The Eastern Ocean had always been a realm of mysteries and untold adventures.
— Hah! A scattering of islands and a few treacherous ocean currents... Have the villages on those islands formed their own state? — Shihan asked, his tone carrying a spark of genuine curiosity—almost childlike in nature, the kind of curiosity possessed only by those who spent their lives solving riddles and discovering new horizons.
— No, my king. The envoys from the Eastern Ocean call their nation the Russian Federation. Their land is on a continent called Russia. It was their country that defeated the Kingdom of Louria, — Motam answered, his words careful, yet tinged with caution.
— Is that so? I have heard of them. The Kingdom of Quila and the Principality of Qua-Toine have already established diplomatic relations with them… Very interesting. I would like to speak with their envoys myself.
Shihan's voice remained steady, but there was an underlying tension in his words, as if he sensed that this foreign power was far more than just a distant land or another potential ally. Perhaps, beneath the surface of their diplomatic gestures, there lay hidden ambitions.
— Understood, my king, — Motam responded with a firm nod. There was no hesitation in his voice. His mission was clear—to bring Shihan before the envoys of the Eastern Ocean.
The Parpaldian Empire.
Capital: Estirant.
Southern Third Division of Foreign Affairs and National Strategy.
The spacious office of the Third Division, furnished with the opulence and sophistication of the early 19th century, exuded an air of importance and officialdom. The walls were lined with oak paneling, adorned with intricate carvings, while tall windows draped in heavy velvet curtains allowed soft light to filter through, casting a play of shadows and highlights across the room.
At the center stood a massive mahogany desk, richly inlaid with decorative patterns. Behind it sat the director—his sharp, disciplined features framed by slicked-back hair. His tailored suit, austere yet elegant, underscored his high rank. On the desk lay writing implements: a quill, an inkwell, and a neatly stacked pile of documents.
Beside him stood a young subordinate dressed in a formal frock coat and waistcoat, diligently transcribing notes into a thick ledger. His movements were precise and measured, in sync with the steady ticking of the ornate clock on the wall, reinforcing the office's atmosphere of order and discipline.
The air carried the scent of wax and old parchment, while the shelves lining the walls held leather-bound tomes with gilded spines and ancient seals.
— Immediately! Do you understand me, Parso?! — the director suddenly snapped, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. — Relay my orders—have the imperial oversight forces dispatched at once!
His hand came down hard on the desk, making the inkwell and parchment tremble with the impact.
— We must crush the Kingdom of Fenn! The barbarians need to be taught a lesson they won't forget! — He straightened, fixing his gaze on his visibly shaken subordinate. — Our division exists to handle barbarian affairs! Do you understand?!
Parso, pale but maintaining composure, swallowed hard before responding:
— Yes, Your Excellency.
The director gave him no time to recover.
— What's the latest on the situation in Altaras? — he demanded, his brow furrowing deeply.
Parso hesitated, clearing his throat before answering:
— Your Excellency, we have been inciting unrest among the lower classes to push them toward a coup, but…
— But what?! — the director bellowed, cutting him off. His footsteps rang sharply across the floor as he began pacing, a predator caged within his own command center. — I don't care about your 'buts,' Parso! I don't care what methods you have to use! If necessary, march into the royal palace yourself and impale the entire royal family on pikes!
He stopped abruptly, turning to his subordinate with a sudden, eerie stillness—far more unnerving than his rage.
— The Empire does not wait for excuses. It demands results. You will convince the officers that war is the only viable course of action. Make sure even the most hesitant among them accept your stance as absolute truth.
Parso gave a slow nod, doing his best to hide the tremor in his hands.
— Understood, Your Excellency.
The director stepped toward a bookshelf, pulling down a finely crafted flintlock musket, its barrel adorned with delicate gold engravings. His movements were deliberate, those of a man accustomed to wielding control over the fates of others. Returning to his desk, he sat down, fixing Parso with an unwavering stare.
— Do you know why you're here, Parso? — his voice was softer now, almost amiable. — Because you must understand that softness and mercy are what will destroy us from within.
He raised the musket slightly, studying it as if reminiscing about the empire's past glories.
— If we turn our backs on these savages, they will tear us apart. Our duty is to bend them to our will. We must trample them into the dirt, take their lands, their wealth, and their people—to glorify the Empire and serve His Imperial Majesty.
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle.
— Relay my orders to the oversight officer. The troops must be assembled for a punitive campaign. And remember, Parso—weakness is what will destroy us.
Parso bowed, barely concealing his relief that his superior's fury had now been redirected elsewhere.
— Yes, Your Excellency.
He turned and quickly exited the office, leaving the director alone. Left to his own thoughts, the director once again took the musket in hand, running his fingers along the engravings as he murmured to himself:
— Strength is the only language these barbarians understand.