Universal Amphibious Assault Ship Priboy, Navy of the Russian Federation.

  Calendar of the Displacement: Year 0000, May, Day 13. 11:30 Moscow Standard Time.

  Ten days. Only ten days had passed since the moment reality had cracked. When the specialists from Roscosmos and the Main Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff presented their joint report, in which phrases like "extraspatial displacement" and "new planetary system" appeared alongside aerial reconnaissance photos, a deafening silence fell over the Kremlin. The initial shock, chaos, and paralysis of the government gave way to iron discipline and the mobilization of all the nation's resources. People returned to work not because they believed what had happened, but because it was in their nature—to work in order to survive. The old proverb, "bloom where you're planted," took on a new, almost apocalyptic meaning.

  As soon as the initial analysis from unmanned drones was received, the data allowed for the creation of rough maps of the immediate territories, and the Ministry of Defense initiated Operation "Horizon." Four modernized Tu-142M3 long-range reconnaissance aircraft were dispatched in the four cardinal directions. The reports that came back from them were astonishing. Especially from the southwestern direction, where a civilization had been discovered, frozen, according to preliminary estimates, at a level equivalent to Europe's Late Middle Ages.

  For a government facing the prospect of total isolation, this news was like a breath of fresh air. A first contact group was immediately formed: top diplomats from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, analysts from the Foreign Intelligence Service, and, for security, a consolidated detachment of the Special Operations Forces. Their transport was the Priboy—the pride of the revived Black Sea Fleet, chosen not for aggression but for what it represented: the full weight of a state that took its people's safety seriously. Everything needed to demonstrate power without using it, and to evacuate everyone if things went wrong. Escorted by the frigates Admiral Makarov and Admiral Essen at a respectful twenty nautical miles, it was the most deliberate first impression a displaced nation could manage.

  As soon as the diplomats and the Special Operations Forces group were aboard, the Priboy, escorted by the frigates Admiral Makarov and Admiral Essen maintaining a distance of twenty nautical miles, departed the shores of its new home.

  On the captain's order, the Priboy halted its engines and lowered its stern ramp, creating a wide and stable platform for the launch. Ten Special Operations Forces soldiers in the latest "Ratnik" combat gear—black anti-fragmentation suits, "Spartan" helmets with visors, and holding AK-12 assault rifles—lined up on either side of the ramp. Their posture was not aggressive, but it radiated absolute confidence and discipline. The sailors from the galley stared at the Russian soldiers' weapons, trying to comprehend their nature—they vaguely resembled the bulky magical arquebuses of the Parpaldia Empire, but looked far more sleek and deadly.

  Escorted by two SOF soldiers, the delegation from the Pima slowly ascended the ramp. They walked through the enormous well deck, observing the armored personnel carriers parked inside and listening to the hum of the powerful ventilation systems.

  The captain of the warship Pima, Midori, was shocked to his core. The deck he finally stepped onto seemed endless. Its size was absurd to a man whose world consisted of the cramped decks of galleys. He felt like an ant on the back of a metal leviathan. With every step on the ridged steel surface, a sense of unreality grew within him. His mouth went dry, and the hand that rested habitually on the hilt of his sword felt like a useless toy. He and his men, warriors hardened by sea battles, now looked like frightened children who had stumbled into the forge of the gods.

  Thoughts raced through Captain Midori's mind like a disturbed swarm of bees. He stood on the deck of a man-made giant, and every breath, filled with the unfamiliar scents of machine oil and ozone, only amplified the feeling that this could not be real. The steel deck beneath his feet did not sway; it was as solid as a rock, as if the ocean itself was afraid to disturb this leviathan.

  "This deck… it's larger than our entire shipyard!" whispered Goran, his hand instinctively clutching the hilt of his sword, as if seeking an anchor in his familiar world.

  "What strange clothes… and two flags that are on no chart!" added Falа, pointing to the St. Andrew's flag of the Russian Navy and the state tricolor that flew proudly from a tall flagpole. Their fabric was of an unfamiliar, impossibly smooth material.

  From the welcoming party, which stood at a respectful distance, a middle-aged man in a formal dark blue suit stepped forward. His gait was calm and confident, and a polite but unreadable smile played on his face. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes, making his figure all the more mysterious and imposing. An aura of authority emanated from this man, one of a completely different order than that of any monarch or general Midori had ever met. This was not power based on birthright or the strength of a sword; this was the cold, calculated power born of knowledge and the technological might that stood behind him.

  "If my crew makes a single wrong move right now, we won't just die. We will be ground to dust, and no one will even find the wreckage," a thought as cold as sea water flashed through Midori's mind. He gave his men a barely perceptible signal—to lower their hands from their hilts and stand at ease.

  Gathering his courage, he took a step forward and, straightening his back, spoke in the common continental language, his voice ringing out loud and clear, echoing off the ship's steel superstructure:

  "I am Captain Midori, commander of the warship Pima of the Second Fleet of the Principality of Qua-Toyne. You are in the adjacent waters of our state. May I inquire as to the nationality of your vessel and the purpose of your voyage?"

  The members of the Russian delegation reacted strangely to his words. They glanced at one another, and a faint whisper passed through their ranks. Despite the distance, the sharp ears of Goran and Falа, inherited from their beastfolk ancestors, caught fragments of the strangers conversation amongst themselves:

  "Is he speaking Russian?"

  "Flawlessly, without an accent… incredible."

  Midori caught the astonishment in their tone but couldn't understand the reason for it. He was speaking the common tongue of Rodenius, as he always had. Did these people not know it? And if not—how was this man about to answer him in it, without a single hesitation?

  For him, speaking the common tongue of Rodenius was natural. Did these strangers not know it?

  Finally, the man in the dark sunglasses removed them, and for the first time, Midori met his gaze. His eyes were gray, intelligent, and impossibly calm. With a slight smile, he replied in a perfect, crystal-clear version of the common tongue, without the slightest foreign inflection:

  "My apologies for our surprise, Captain. A language barrier was one of the primary challenges we prepared for. Your knowledge of our language is a pleasant and staggering surprise. My name is Alexey Vladimirovich Sokolov, and I am a special envoy from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Russian Federation. My government wishes to establish peaceful diplomatic and trade relations with your nation, the Principality of Qua-Toyne."

  "So, you are… an envoy from a nation previously unknown to us?" Midori struggled to keep his voice steady, though he felt a knot tighten in his stomach. The Russian Federation… the name meant nothing to him.

  "Precisely," Sokolov nodded. His gaze was direct and open, holding no trace of hostility. "Please, do not be alarmed. Your men appear tense, but we have no hostile intentions whatsoever. We come in peace."

  Midori turned back to his men.

  "Everyone, stand at ease!" Then he looked at Sokolov again. "Allow me to ask a question. Several days ago, an unidentified flying object violated our airspace. Did it belong to you?"

  "If you are referring to our Tu-142M3 reconnaissance aircraft, then yes, that was us. On behalf of the government of the Russian Federation, I offer our formal apologies for that unintentional incident. We were unaware that these territories were sovereign."

  The word "Tu-1-4-2-M-3" was just a string of sounds to Midori, but he understood the essence. The name of the monster that had soared over Maihark. He gave a short nod, and Sokolov, seeing his tacit acceptance, moved to the main point, deciding not to prolong the explanation.

  "Our country, the Russian Federation, found itself in this world suddenly, as the result of a spatial anomaly whose nature we are still studying. In order to understand where we are and to ensure the safety of our citizens, the government initiated long-range reconnaissance. One of our aircraft, in the course of this mission, accidentally violated the airspace of your principality. Once again, I apologize for this incident."

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  With every word Sokolov spoke, a wave seemed to pass over the faces of Midori's men—from bewilderment to stunned amazement. He saw his subordinates, battle-hardened warriors, furtively exchanging glances, trying not to break the tense silence. The transfer of an entire country... The absurdity of the thought crashed into his consciousness. He had only heard such plots in his childhood, in the old legends of the Ancient Magical Empire that had vanished into oblivion. They were fairy tales that mothers used to frighten disobedient children.

  But these were not fairy tale heroes standing before him. The serious, calm expressions on the faces of Sokolov and his entourage left no room for doubt—this was not a joke or a ruse. Midori realized that he was confronting not just "unseen sailors," but representatives of a civilization whose reality was so different from his own that he could not even find the words to describe it.

  Realizing the full gravity of the moment, he took a deep breath.

  "Given your… extraordinary circumstances, I will immediately inform headquarters of your peaceful intentions. I ask that you please wait."

  "Of course," Sokolov nodded, and for just a moment, a note of business-like impatience entered his voice. "Tell me, Captain, how long do you estimate it will take to receive a response? A day? Two?"

  Midori was briefly taken aback by the question. For them, transmitting a message over such a distance and receiving a reply could indeed take days.

  "Do not worry. I will contact my command immediately, using the manacomm. An answer should come within minutes. A decision of this level is not within my authority, but I will do everything I can to facilitate a peaceful dialogue."

  "A manacomm? Is that… a communication device?" A genuine, professional analyst's interest, not mere curiosity, sounded in Sokolov's voice.

  With a touch of pride, Midori produced a small artifact: a faceted crystal in a silver setting that shimmered with a faint bluish light, reacting to its owner's mana.

  "Yes. The finest mages in our principality created it. It allows one to transmit thoughts over a distance by using magical energy," he explained, feeling that for the first time in the entire conversation, he was displaying something that might surprise these newcomers.

  Sokolov and the analysts exchanged a quick glance. The voice of an electronic warfare specialist from the Surf's bridge sounded in his headphones, and for the first time in the entire mission, his professional composure cracked.:

  "Dmitry Igorevich. I detect a surge of energy from the object in the captain's hands. This is not an electromagnetic signal. These are not radio waves, microwaves, infrared radiation, or any of the frequencies in our spectrum. I can't classify it." Our instruments can detect it, but they cannot identify it. This... — pause, — ... This is an unknown physical phenomenon.

  In the command center, Lieutenant Koroleva was already opening a new window for analysis. In the linguistics department, Dr. Fedotova stopped in mid-sentence and stared at the spectrum display screen. On the scientific deck of the Surf, where three physicists from Roscosmos were, all three looked at the same readings from three different instruments. One of them, Academician Rybakov, fifty-eight years old, said quietly, “It’s impossible.” Then he said it even more quietly.

  This was the first instrumentally confirmed contact, not just with another civilization, but with another system of physical laws. It turned out that the universe was bigger than their models had predicted. It was bigger, more amazing, and subject to laws they had not anticipated.

  Sokolov maintained a composed expression. The specialist's voice came through the earpiece again: "Sir, this is... this is a transmission. Whatever this radiation is, it carries information. It's working."

  "I understand," Sokolov replied very quietly, watching the captain speak into his crystal.

  Midori brought the crystal to his mouth and began to speak, sending his report to the headquarters of the Second Fleet, detailing everything he had seen and heard. And as he did, he failed to notice the dozens of cameras and sensors concealed in the Priboy's superstructure, greedily analyzing him, his equipment, and the small, shimmering crystal that had just opened up an entirely new world for science.

  "We would be very grateful, Captain," Sokolov said when Midori lowered his hand. "We are not here to conquer, but to cooperate. I hope that our first meeting will be the foundation for a long and fruitful friendship."

  "I will inform my command, and we will be glad to assist," Midori concluded. "Perhaps we can arrange for a peaceful visit by your representatives to our palace."

  Contact had been made. Fragile, full of mistrust and hidden motives, but contact nonetheless. And both sides understood that after this day, their worlds would never be the same again.

  Principality of Qua-Toyne. Second Fleet Headquarters.

  In the admiral's spacious office, which was steeped in the aroma of pipe tobacco and old nautical charts, Commander Nouka was studying the report that had come through the manacomm. The communicator's crystal, set in the corner, still glowed faintly, crackling with residual mana. The admiral, a man in his forties with a strong, wind-weathered face, released a plume of fragrant smoke. In his eyes, accustomed to endless sea horizons, there was a look of deep contemplation. Now, in this time of peace, his greatest weapon was not his fleet, but the mind of a strategist. And at this moment, that mind was working at the absolute limit of its capacity.

  The door was thrown open without a knock—a flagrant violation of protocol that only a messenger with news of the utmost urgency could afford. The manacomm operator burst into the office, gasping for breath.

  "Admiral Nouka! An urgent message from Captain Midori on the Pima! Highest priority!"

  "Report," Nouka's voice was calm, but he slowly set his pipe down on its stand. His cold, sharp gaze locked onto the operator.

  The man snapped to attention and began to recite the message that had been transmitted through the manacomm:

  "'Inspection of the unknown vessel has been conducted. The opposing… the party shows no aggression. The vessel's dimensions, by Captain Midori's visual estimate, are no less than two hundred to two hundred and twenty meters in length and forty meters in width. No sails or oars have been detected. The source of its propulsion is unknown. A diplomatic mission from a previously unknown state—the Russian Federation—is on board. Their stated purpose is the establishment of peaceful diplomatic relations with the Principality.'"

  Nouka's hand, which had been holding the pipe, froze. He could not believe his ears. Two hundred and twenty meters… Those were the dimensions not of a ship, but of a royal palace. A floating palace that had come from nowhere.

  "Continue," he ordered, his voice hardening.

  "'The 'Sky Spear' incident from several days ago has been confirmed. It was their reconnaissance aircraft. A representative of the Russian Federation has offered a formal apology. Furthermore… Captain Midori relays the diplomat's words verbatim: "Our country was transferred to this world as the result of a spatial anomaly."'" The operator finished reading and fell silent, not daring to lift his eyes.

  Transferred. An entire country. Nouka slowly rose from his desk and walked to the window overlooking the harbor. He recalled the ancient, half-forgotten myths he had studied back in the war academy. Legends from the time of the fall of the Magical Empire, which mentioned "transferred lands" and "guests from other worlds." It had always been assumed they were just stories, metaphors.

  "The tales of outsiders… could they actually be real?" he muttered under his breath, looking at the masts of his galleys. They seemed so small and fragile against the image his imagination was painting.

  He stood at the window for a long moment. Outside, his fleet—twenty-two galleys, four fire-ships, and a river patrol squadron that together represented the full naval might of the principality—sat at anchor in the harbor. Against Louria's fleet, which had been launching new hulls every two weeks for six years, they would last perhaps four hours in open water.

  He had known this for three years. He had written the reports. He had attended the security council meetings where they discussed it in the calm, professional language of men who have accepted a bad outcome and are deciding only how to delay it. He had gone home afterward and eaten dinner and not told his wife.

  And now, sixty kilometers offshore, a metal ship two hundred and twenty meters long sat at anchor, crewed by people who could build a flying machine that outran wyverns and spoke the common tongue without having been taught it.

  He turned from the window.

  "Signalman! Coded message to the capital—the 'Lotus Garden,' Prime Minister Kanata's personal cipher.

  The content is as follows: 'Contact has been made with a previously unknown, technologically superior civilization. Their representatives are aboard our vessel. They request diplomatic negotiations. They claim to be a 'transferred country.' I believe this information to be credible and of the highest state priority. I recommend convening an emergency session of the Security Council immediately. I am personally departing for the capital to deliver my report.'"

  "Yes, Admiral!"

  The operator, stunned by the scale of the events, saluted and rushed out of the office. Nouka was left alone. He understood that everything now depended on his words, on how he presented this information to the Council. One wrong step, one display of fear or aggression, and his country could be wiped from the face of the earth. Or, conversely, it could gain the most powerful ally in its history. Diplomacy, not war, had just become the primary battlefield for the survival of the Principality of Qua-Toyne. And he, the admiral, had to be its first soldier.

  Principality of Qua-Toyne. The Capital. The Lotus Garden.

  Prime Minister Kanata read the coded dispatch three times.

  He was not a man who read things three times. He had governed a principality of fifteen million people for nine years, and in that time he had learned to extract the essential content from a document in a single pass and act on it. Reading something three times was a thing he did when the words were clear but the implications were not.

  The implications here were not clear.

  He set the dispatch on his desk and looked at it. Outside his window, the capital was quiet—late enough that even the night markets had wound down, early enough that the morning deliveries hadn't begun. In six hours, his ministers would arrive for the regular council session, expecting to discuss the grain allocation dispute with the eastern districts and the updated intelligence estimate on Louria's western fleet movements.

  He would have to tell them that a previously unknown nation had materialized sixty kilometers off their coast, that its ships were two hundred and twenty meters long and moved without sails, that its flying machines could outpace a wyvern by a factor of two or more, and that its diplomats had communicated this information in flawless Rodenius common tongue without any apparent prior study of the language.

  He would also have to tell them that Louria's offensive was still coming. That this new development did not pause Haark's ambitions. That the world had just become significantly more complex without becoming any less dangerous.

  Kanata picked up his pen. He had three decisions to make before morning: whether to receive the Russian delegation, at what level, and what to offer them.

  The first two were easy.

  The third—what Qua-Toyne could possibly offer a civilization of that power in exchange for the thing they needed most—that would require more thought.

  He pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward him and began to write.