Chapter 15. The Battle for Tormeus. Part 1.

Russian Federation. Moscow. Embassy of the Kingdom of Topa.

"W-what...?" The ambassador of the Kingdom of Topa dropped the parchment sent by the king from his trembling hands. The parchment floated down slowly onto the carved oak table, reflecting off its polished surface like a dark lake. "No… it can't be… Gods…" he whispered, his strength fading from sheer despair, his voice barely reaching his own ears.

The letter was brief, yet it reeked of hopelessness. King Rodos had written that the Kingdom of Topa was hanging by a thread. Demonic legions, like a dark storm cloud, had swept across the land, nearly surrounding the fortress city of Tormeus. This last bastion of defense was barely holding against the relentless assault of magical beasts. The warriors, exhausted and drained of blood, were on the verge of collapse. The king had no time and no resources left. He had reached out for aid to everyone, even the great power of the Parpaldian Empire, but the latest report made it clear—Parpaldia had refused to help.

"Parpaldians refused," the ambassador thought bitterly. "Apparently, they have enough problems of their own. Some great empire! But in reality—cowards!" His lips twisted in a contemptuous smirk. "Well then, there's only one hope left—the Russians. Will they help?" He now placed all his faith in their new ally, Russia.

Sitting in his office, the ambassador struggled to regain his composure. His hands wouldn't stop shaking, and his thoughts were in disarray. He ran a hand through his graying temples, trying to steady himself. If we lose Topa, he thought, it will be the end of our people. But what can I do from here, so far from home? Will all our hopes collapse, and everything our fathers and grandfathers fought for be left to the mercy of the darkness?

After several minutes of deep contemplation, the ambassador reached for the landline telephone—a gift from Russia upon his appointment in Moscow. He dialed the number of the Secretary of the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

"This is 10-04. Please connect me with Georgy Borisovich," he said, trying to sound composed, but his voice betrayed his anxiety, laced with tension and fear. "The situation is catastrophic."

The secretary, accustomed to diplomatic formalities, responded briefly. The ambassador let out a sigh of relief and set the receiver down. All he could do now was wait.

Minutes dragged on like thick, clinging tar. He got up and began pacing the office nervously, his gaze flickering toward the portrait of King Rodos hanging on the wall. His lips moved in silent prayers to the Supreme God, filled not only with pleas for help but with the desperate cry of a man forced to witness the fall of his people.

I beg you, he repeated in his mind, grant us strength… save us from this darkness…

At last, the phone rang. Its sharp trilling sliced through the suffocating silence of the office. The ambassador, as if awakening from a trance, hastily picked up the receiver. After a brief conversation, he was summoned to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

Russian Federation. Moscow. Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

The conference room was bathed in the cold glow of fluorescent lights, amplifying the oppressive silence. The ambassador of the Kingdom of Topa sat alone, his face betraying his deep concern. His breathing was heavy, uneven. He hadn't slept in days—each moment felt like an eternity.

Before him lay the managram from King Rodos, which he had brought with him. Its lines burned with despair: the demonic legions were continuing their siege of Tormeus.

The ambassador had been escorted to the negotiation room upon his arrival at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Now he sat, waiting. The office was steeped in a suffocating quiet, broken only by the occasional deep sighs of the ambassador and the ticking of the wall clock, a sound that set his teeth on edge. His exhaustion was unbearable—sleep had been a distant luxury.

A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. The sound was soft, yet firm. The ambassador stood, straightened his mantle, and invited the visitor inside.

A tall man in a strict, dark-gray suit entered the room. His face was calm, but his eyes showed traces of weariness—likely from endless meetings.

"Welcome," the Foreign Ministry official extended a hand, his voice deep and measured.

The ambassador shook it, trying to appear composed. However, his voice wavered when he spoke:

"…As I have said, our knights are holding the line against the demons, but they will not last much longer. Tormeus is the last stronghold. If it falls, the hordes will flood deeper into the kingdom. We can handle goblins, but the Demon Lord… He is not just a monster; he is the embodiment of terror itself. We… we ask you to deploy a detachment of your Ground Forces."

The official listened attentively but did not rush to respond. He rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully, as if weighing the invisible scales of diplomacy.

"The Demon Lord, you say?" he finally asked, narrowing his eyes. "Is he a sentient being?"

The ambassador blinked, momentarily taken aback by the question.

"What? He devours humans, elves, dwarves! He destroys cities! What kind of sentience are you talking about?" he burst out, barely keeping his voice in check.

The official frowned slightly, a cold shiver running down his spine.

"I understand," he finally replied. "But this matter does not concern our ministry alone. We will need consultations with other agencies. However, given the urgency of your situation, we will try to expedite the process."

The ambassador nodded, but inside, his emotions were raging. He bowed and, without another word, left the office.

Several days passed in anxious anticipation. The embassy remained cloaked in silence, broken only by the hushed murmurs of officials and the rustling of paperwork. The ambassador paced from corner to corner, tormented by doubt. What if they refuse? Or what if they offer help only when it's already too late?

But then, one evening, news arrived at the embassy. The Russian government had made its decision. Under the pretext of an "international mission to eliminate a dangerous wild threat," a special unit of the Ground Forces had been assembled.

The ambassador sank into his chair, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease. The troops are coming. But would they make it in time?

Deep inside, he knew—the future of the Kingdom of Topa hinged on this decision. And perhaps, on the actions of people he had never met, but who now carried the last hope of his nation.

Kingdom of Topa. Fortress City of Tormeus.

The eastern part of what was once the magnificent fortress city of Tormeus had been consumed by chaos and darkness. Demons had turned the land into a hellish cesspool, where every street reeked of death and suffering. Clusters of civilian corpses dangled from the wreckage of buildings like some grotesque decoration. The severed heads of defenders, impaled on spikes, marked the invaders' victory. The air was thick with the stench of rot, blood, and filth. Through this nightmare, cries of agony, sobs, and the guttural growls of inhuman creatures filled the void.

Inside one of the few surviving town halls, a group of prisoners huddled together—women, children, and the elderly. Goblins, sneering and chuckling wickedly, roamed among them, selecting their victims. Some were dragged off to the kitchens, destined for the cooking pot. Others were set aside for the orcs' entertainment.

"This one looks delicious. What do you think?" one of the goblins hissed, licking his rotting teeth as he eyed a half-elf girl.

Another goblin, grinning, stepped closer and used a jagged knife—crafted from human bone—to slice through her tattered clothes. He eyed her up and down before yanking her hair, forcing a sharp cry from her lips.

"This one goes to the master. He'll break her quick, and then we'll get our turn," he growled, pleased with his prize.

Snickering, they tied her to a wooden pole and carried her out of the hall. To them, this was routine—so much so that they didn't even notice the prisoners trembling in silent horror.

Meanwhile, in another corner of the hall, three goblins came across a young girl. She sat with her back against the wall, head buried in her knees.

"Hee-hee, look at this one—rosy cheeks!" one of them squeaked, placing his clawed hand on her knee. "Mmm, she's gonna be tasty."

Before he could say another word, a thin but razor-sharp blade pierced his throat. The girl sprang to her feet, stabbing again and again, her stiletto sinking deep into his neck. Blood sprayed across her face and hands as the goblin choked on his own lifeblood before collapsing. She stood there, panting heavily, eyes ablaze with fury.

For a moment, the other goblins froze, stunned by the sudden brutality. Then, enraged, they charged at her.

There were at least twenty of them. One, wielding a cleaver, lunged forward. At the last second, she dodged, deflecting the attack before driving her blade straight into his eye. The goblin shrieked, crumpling to the ground, and without hesitation, she slit his throat, sending another crimson spray across the floor.

The goblins, so used to their victims' helplessness, faltered for a brief moment.

But their rage quickly overtook their hesitation. One of them bolted out of the hall—likely to call reinforcements. The girl, drenched in sweat and blood, kept fighting. She struck at every enemy within reach, her movements growing more frantic, more desperate.

Then came the blow.

A goblin's club smashed into her shoulder. Agonizing pain tore through her body, but she gritted her teeth and lashed out at the next goblin, refusing to fall.

Her limbs grew heavy. Her breathing became ragged. Her vision blurred.

And then, from the shadows, a new enemy emerged.

A massive warlord orc, clad in iron armor, a living fortress of muscle and steel.

His spiked mace came crashing down, slamming into her side. She barely had time to react. The impact sent her flying across the room. She slammed into a wall, the force knocking the air from her lungs. When she tried to rise, her body refused to obey.

Blood poured from her wounds. Bones shattered. The darkness closed in.

And then—horror.

They dragged her broken body away from the wall.

The goblins, wild with vengeance, tore at her remaining clothing. Their laughter and guttural snarls blended into a cacophony of nightmares.

But she refused to give them the satisfaction.

Blood blurred her vision, pain burned through her veins, but she forced herself to focus—on the stiletto lying beneath a fallen goblin's corpse.

With a final, desperate scream, she lunged.

The blade sank into the throat of the nearest monster.

Without hesitation, she turned the weapon on herself.

One swift, deep cut.

Warm blood spilled down her neck.

A strange relief washed over her as the pain faded. Then, only cold remained.

As her body went limp, the hall fell silent.

The orc and goblins, denied their prize, howled in fury.

Their rage turned on the remaining prisoners. Beastly roars mixed with terrified cries.

Amidst the torment and despair, a weak whisper barely broke the suffocating air:

"Great gods… I beg you… save us…"

Russian Military Base Briefing

"I am Major Alexey Neverov, appointed commander of the special operations platoon deployed to the Kingdom of Topa. I'll now explain the details of our mission." Alexey's voice was steady yet firm as he scanned the room, ensuring that every squad leader and specialist was focused. Folders filled with reports, maps, and photographs lay on the tables before them.

"They're sending us to hunt down some monsters," he continued, narrowing his eyes slightly. "But turns out, this 'game' isn't so simple." He paused, letting the words sink in. "This... 'Demon Lord'—he's some kind of magical abomination. From what the locals say, he can hurl magic across an entire battlefield. And he's not the only threat."

The room filled with the rustling of paper as officers flipped through their dossiers, studying the descriptions of the creatures they might soon face. Expressions ranged from curiosity to cautious skepticism.

Alexey leaned forward. "These demons don't just randomly attack people. They harvest intelligent races. They conduct systematic raids—not for territory, but for food. As for the Demon Lord, they claim he's immortal. Doesn't age, and—maybe—he's not even human. Some believe he's a remnant of an ancient empire that used forgotten sorcery or lost technology to create something that transcended life and death."

With that, he switched on the projector. The screen displayed a towering, four-meter-tall figure clad in black armor, muscles bulging beneath the heavy plates. Fire burned in its eyes beneath the helmet, giving it a terrifying presence.

"Meet the troll. Strong, disciplined, but intelligence... below average. His job is to break through defenses and smash walls. Slow, but incredibly tough. If you engage, take him down fast."

The next slide revealed another breed of creature—towering nearly two and a half meters tall, clad in heavy armor.

"These are the High Dark Orcs. According to local legends, they went extinct 3,500 years ago, but as you can see, they're very much alive and well. Smart, disciplined, and strong. They fight with the precision of elite soldiers—their movements like a deadly dance. Every strike is calculated, every motion efficient."

Someone muttered in the back, "Looks like something straight out of Lord of the Rings."

A few chuckles rippled through the room, but Alexey remained unfazed.

"Then we have wild orcs—anthropomorphic boars. Nothing much to say here. Low intelligence, extreme physical strength. Cannon fodder. They lack discipline and aren't a serious threat to a trained soldier. But they are incredibly resilient."

"Next, goblins. Weaker than humans but aggressive like rabid dogs. Their strength is in numbers. They breed like rabbits and attack in hordes, overwhelming through sheer volume."

"And then, we have the Red and Blue Ogres. These things are four times stronger than humans, possess near-infinite endurance, and regenerate wounds at an unnatural rate. Blades, arrows, bolts—none of it phases them. They move faster than you'd expect for their size, rivaling trained sprinters. They are completely fearless, fighting to the last breath. Their rage is something beyond human comprehension—something primal, something unstoppable. As long as they can feed on human flesh, they can fight indefinitely. Stopping them is nearly impossible. They were made for destruction. A ballista round might take them down—but good luck hitting them, they're too damn fast. If you encounter one, avoid direct combat at all costs."

The last few images on the screen showed burning villages, a ruined castle, and scenes of brutal battles. Alexey turned back to the officers.

"The knights of Topa are holding back the demons in Tormeus for now, but they won't last long without reinforcements. Our mission is to eliminate the Demon Lord, as well as the Red and Blue Ogres operating under his command. They are the key figures holding this army together—without them, the demon forces will collapse."

Alexey shut off the projector. "That's the situation, gentlemen. Prepare yourselves. We're facing something far beyond conventional warfare. But we are Russian soldiers, and failure is not an option."

Unit Composition:

Operation Name: Bogatyri (Russian legendary warriors)

Platoon Commander: Major Alexey Neverov

Squad Leaders: Senior Lieutenant Sergey Sokolov, Captain Dmitry Volkov, Senior Lieutenant Mikhail Medvedev.

A few soldiers exchanged knowing smirks at the name.

"So, we're basically the Russian version of medieval knights fighting demons," one of them chuckled, trying to mask the nervous tension in his voice.

"Yeah, fearless warriors who can take down the devil himself," another muttered, a forced laugh escaping the group. The humor was dry—more of a coping mechanism than genuine amusement.

Neverov raised a hand, and the room fell silent.

"We deploy in three days. We'll assess the situation on-site. The rivers shouldn't be an issue—shallow waters, from what we've gathered. Tormeus doesn't have a moat, which simplifies the approach. Despite Topa's snow-covered terrain, we're not investing in snowmobiles. The main forces will arrive later, and our vehicles can handle the conditions without specialized tires."

"Check your gear. Make sure everything is ready. Dismissed."

Deployment:

Two days later, the landing ship Solnechny set sail for the Kingdom of Topa, escorted by two frigates, Admiral Butakov and Admiral Alafuzov.

The forward strike team was equipped with:

2 T-72B3 tanks

3 BTR-87M armored personnel carriers

3 Typhoon MRAP vehicles

2 Tiger armored cars

1 SBMR (Specialized Battle Reconnaissance Machine)

This would be their primary combat force for securing Topa's defenses.

"Well, gentlemen, looks like we're stepping into a fairy tale," one of the officers joked. "Except instead of horses, we've got tanks and APCs."

The Russian Special Operations Task Force was en route to the northeastern city of Tormeus, assigned to protect the kingdom from a demonic invasion. As dramatic as it sounded, there was no other way to put it.

Kingdom of Topa. Berngen. Nivel Castle.

In the throne room, King Rodos jumped up in surprise after reading the envoy's message. Russia, a nation he hadn't placed much hope in, had decided to send an advanced unit. Well, damn. He had already heard plenty of rumors about the Russians—how they had annihilated the Lourian army with explosive magic, wiped out the Parpaldian oversight forces without losing a single soldier. If any of that was true, well, that was seriously impressive. Maybe their unit could even take down the Demon Lord. Who knows?

"The Russian army must be full of powerful mages," the king mused, involuntarily picturing what they might look like. Those who had seen them and those who had only heard about them probably imagined the same thing—warriors beyond belief.

The Russians would be arriving in Tormeus soon. The royal forces, though battered and bruised, were still holding the city—for now. But just barely. Like a fraying thread about to snap. Rodos envisioned their arrival—heroes on white steeds, clad in golden armor that shimmered in the sunlight, blinding their enemies.

"I wonder what kind of people they really are?" the king pondered, his anticipation growing by the minute. Anxiety and excitement coursed through him.

All he could do now was wait for news, fingers crossed.