Central World. Kingdom of Irnetia, 500 km west of the Mu continent.

  Lampal Castle, Capital City of Kilkrus.

  The Kingdom of Irnetia, an island nation, had flourished for centuries at the crossroads of trade routes between the West and the Second Civilized Zone. A peaceful nation of merchants and seafarers, accustomed to resolving conflicts with gold and treaties rather than the sword, it now faced a threat for which it had neither words nor weapons.

  In the throne room of Lampal Castle, where deals had been struck for centuries, the air smelled not of incense, but of cold, sticky fear.

  An emergency meeting of the High Council was taking place in an atmosphere of oppressive silence. Seated at the mahogany table were King Irtis XIII, the Chancellor, General Nizuel (Commander of the Western Army), Lord Viri (Minister of Foreign Affairs), and Captain Leneria (Capital Defense).

  "The situation is critical," the Chancellor said hollowly, never taking his eyes off the map where more and more territories were being hatched out in red ink. "Half of the Western nations have already fallen. Paganda has been wiped off the face of the earth. The Superpower Leifor... it is no more. The Gra-Valkas Empire has declared war on the entire Second Civilized Region."

  Irtis XIII, an aging monarch used to peaceful rule, nervously gripped the armrests of his throne.

  "General Nizuel. You are our best strategist. Tell me honestly: what are our chances if they come here?"

  Nizuel, a gray-haired veteran of border skirmishes, stood up. In his eyes was the doom of a professional who sees the inevitable.

  "Your Majesty, I will be extremely blunt. At sea, we have no chance. They destroyed Leifor's fleet, the strongest in the region, with a single ship. Our sailing fleet is merely a shooting gallery for them. We know nothing of their weapons, other than that they kill at distances unattainable by our magic."

  He paused, gathering his courage.

  "On land... Theoretically, we know the terrain. We could drag them into a guerrilla war, force them to pay in blood for every step. But the price... It would mean the annihilation of our people and economy. The outcome, at best, would be a Pyrrhic victory, and most likely—a heroic death."

  A tense silence hung in the hall. The lords cast glances at one another. To fight meant certain death, but surrender threatened the loss of everything their kingdom had taken pride in for a thousand years.

  "Allow me, Your Majesty," raised his hand Lord Viri, the kingdom's most sophisticated diplomat. His face was calm, but his eyes betrayed the feverish working of his mind.

  "Speak, Viri."

  "We cannot win alone. But we are not obliged to be alone. We need to drag a Third Power into this conflict. The Superpower Mu."

  "Mu is already at war with them!" objected one of the lords. "They do not have the strength to protect us!"

  "That is exactly why they need us!" parried Viri. "Geography is our only weapon. Irnetia is a shield covering the western coast of Mu. If Gra-Valkas seizes us, they gain a staging ground for an invasion of the mainland. We must propose a military alliance to Mu. Allow them to station their bases, their mechanical troops here. Then an attack on us becomes an attack on Mu. Gra-Valkas will think three times before opening a second front here."

  It was a desperate but brilliant strategy: to become a living shield for a giant, hoping that its armor would cover you as well.

  "This... might work," the King said thoughtfully. "Plan 'Shield and Sword.' We buy time for ourselves and for Mu."

  But they no longer had time.

  Suddenly, magical alarm crystals blinked in the hall, bathing the faces of those present in a deathly red light.

  "Top-level alert?! What is happening?!"

  The doors burst open, and a communications officer ran into the hall, pale as a sheet.

  "Your Majesty! Enemy ship! A battleship of the Gra-Valkas Empire! Thirty kilometers to the west!"

  King Irtis turned white.

  "They are already here..."

  "They refused inspection, Your Majesty," the officer reported, gasping for breath. "They stated that a diplomatic mission is on board. They demand immediate docking at the port nearest to the capital. The tone... was ultimatums."

  The hall exploded with shouts of indignation. Audacity! Disrespect! But the King raised his hand, stopping the noise. He understood: this was not rudeness. It was a show of force.

  "Let them enter the port of Dohbai. We will receive them. We must find out what they want. And try to buy time."

  Six hours later. Lampal Castle.

  Lord Viri stood by the window, looking out at the courtyard. His hands trembled slightly, and he clasped them behind his back. He was about to conduct negotiations with representatives of a nation that had put down Leifor like a rabid dog.

  "Lord Viri, they have arrived," a servant reported.

  The doors opened. Four men entered. No bows, no traditional greetings. They were dressed in severe gray uniforms that looked alien amidst the tapestries and gilding. Their faces were impenetrable.

  The leader was a man with eyes cold as steel.

  "Greetings. I am Viri, the Plenipotentiary Representative..."

  "Dallas. Department of Foreign Relations of the Gra-Valkas Empire," the intruder interrupted him without even listening to the end. He sat in an armchair without waiting for an invitation and tossed a folder of documents onto the table. "I have little time, Mr. Viri. So, straight to business. I am not here to negotiate. I am here to offer you the deal of a lifetime."

  Viri sat opposite, trying to maintain a mask of calm, though everything inside him was boiling.

  "And what kind of... deal is this?"

  "Read it."

  Viri picked up the sheets. With every line read, his heart beat slower and slower, as if dying.

  This was not a treaty. It was an act of complete, unconditional surrender.

  1. Complete transfer of sovereignty, army, navy, and resources.

  2. Confiscation of all property.

  3. Renunciation of freedom of speech. Any criticism of the Empire is death.

  4. The Royal Family swears an oath of vassalage, otherwise—liquidation.

  "Excuse me... what is this?" Viri's voice trembled. "This... this is madness! No sovereign state would accept such conditions!"

  Dallas smirked. It was the smile of a man looking at an insect.

  "Shocking, isn't it? You should be grateful. His Imperial Majesty, in his infinite mercy, has allowed you to retain formal self-governance. We believe that savages like you are incapable of understanding our perfect system of government, so we allow you to play at having your own government. Under our control, of course."

  "That is an insult!" one of Viri's aides jumped up, unable to restrain himself.

  Dallas didn't even look at him.

  "That is reality," he said coldly. "Understand this, Viri. Your choice is simple. Yes or no. Life or death. We crushed Leifor like a rotten nut. Your army, your ridiculous wyverns, your sailboats—for us, this isn't even sport. It represents the disposal of ammunition."

  He stood up, making it clear the conversation was over.

  "I give you a month. Exactly one month to think and send a response to our headquarters in Leiforia. And I advise you not to test the Emperor's patience."

  "Thank you... for your candor," Viri forced out. He wanted to scream, to strike this insolent man, but he was a diplomat. He had to save the country.

  When the Gra-Valkas delegation left the castle, leaving a trail of contempt behind them, Viri's assistants exploded with rage.

  "War! We must fight! This is a humiliation!"

  But Viri remained silent. He looked out the window at the sunset.

  "War is death," he said quietly. "We cannot defeat them with force. But we can outplay them. A month... We have a month."

  His eyes, usually soft, became hard as granite.

  "Prepare my ship. I am departing for Mu immediately. And to other countries. We will find allies. We will unite the whole world against this monster. Or we will die trying."

  Thus, in the shadow of impending catastrophe, began the desperate diplomatic race of the Kingdom of Irnetia—a race against death that was to lead them to the only remaining choice: hope in the technologies and protection of other superpowers.

  Second Civilized Region. Superpower Mu. Port City of Maekal. "Ainak" Airport.

  The setting sun flooded the concrete strip of the airfield with anxious orange light. Exhausted figures, chilled to the bone, slid with difficulty from the saddles of rented wyverns.

  Lord Viri, head of the Irnetian diplomatic mission, staggered as he touched the ground. Four days of continuous flight. Four days of freezing wind, the hum of wings, and the constant fear that the silhouettes of Gra-Valkas fighters would appear on the horizon. It was a marathon for survival. They had covered thousands of kilometers, transferring from one wyvern to another at special stations, burning through the treasury and their health to make it in time.

  "We are here, Your Highness," Viri said hoarsely, offering his hand to young Prince Eites. The seventeen-year-old youth looked pale, his eyes sunken, but he held himself with dignity, uttering not a sound of complaint throughout the entire journey. "This is Mu. The Second Civilized Region."

  They were met by Nall, the Ambassador of Irnetia to Mu. He looked anxious but tried to save face.

  "Welcome, Lord Viri, Your Highness. You have achieved the impossible. I have already arranged a meeting. The Head of the Department for External Territories will receive us the day after tomorrow."

  "The day after tomorrow?!" Viri exhaled. "We have no time! Gra-Valkas gave us a month!"

  "That is the best I could do. It is chaos here right now. Everyone is preparing for the 11 Nations Conference, everyone fears war. Please, follow me. The carriage is ready."

  They walked from the airfield to the station square, and Viri froze.

  His idea of Mu as a land of gears and steam was instantly shattered. Instead of the familiar steam bus, in front of them stood... a strange, angular, white-and-blue metal box on massive rubber wheels.

  "What is that?" whispered Eites.

  "This is a 'bus,' Your Highness. The model is... I believe, PAZ-3204 'Vector'," explained Nall, pronouncing the strange name with difficulty. "Transfer to the hotel."

  The vehicle's doors opened with a characteristic pneumatic hiss ("Pshhh..."), which made the Irnetians flinch. Inside, it smelled not of coal and magic, but of something sharp and chemical—cheap plastic and burnt diesel fuel.

  The driver, a local resident dressed in a practical jumpsuit, nodded to them:

  "Load up, gentlemen. The 'Russian Express' is departing."

  When they sat on the somewhat stiff but ergonomic seats, and the engine under the floor growled dully and rhythmically, the vehicle moved. There was no shaking, no clouds of steam. The "bus" gathered speed unattainable for any carriage and smoothly merged into the traffic flow.

  Viri pressed himself against the glass. Maekal had changed.

  "Ambassador Nall... where is this from?" he pointed to a massive, predatory black SUV, a UAZ "Patriot", passing by, towering over the traffic like a fortress. "This is not Mu technology. I was here five years ago."

  "You are right, My Lord. That is Russia," Nall replied quietly. "A strange country from the far east. Rumor has it, the very barbarians who destroyed Parpaldia. They formed a trade alliance with Mu. Now their goods are everywhere."

  "Russia?" Viri frowned. Only rumors considered the ravings of drunken sailors had reached Irnetia. "So it is true? Are they really that strong?"

  "Look around," Nall spread his hands. "They sell technologies that are a century ahead of Mu like hot cakes. This bus, this asphalt, the light signals on the roads... If this is how they trade, imagine how they fight."

  A switch clicked in Viri's head. The world was more complex than just "Irnetia versus Gra-Valkas." There were other players in it.

  Two days later. Office of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Mu.

  The Ministry building was overwhelming. Concrete and glass, sixty floors of industrial might. The Irnetians felt like ants at the foot of a mountain.

  The meeting took place in a cool office overlooking the port, packed, as Viri noticed, not with local vessels, but with giant container ships flying a tricolor flag.

  The Department Head, Gandolph, a man with a face exhausted by insomnia, listened to them silently. Viri spoke passionately; he laid Dallas's ultimatum on the table—a document that effectively turned their country into a colony.

  "...This is slavery, Mr. Gandolph! If Gra-Valkas consumes us, they gain a staging ground for a strike on Mu. We are your shield! We ask for weapons! Your rifles, your machine guns! And guarantees of military aid!"

  Gandolph took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. In his eyes lay fatigue and fear.

  "Lord Viri. I will be frank. We know what is happening. Gra-Valkas is a rabid beast."

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  He placed his palm on the document.

  "Help will come. If they attack, Mu will enter the war. Within two months, our fleet will approach your shores. That is a guarantee."

  "Two months?!" exclaimed Prince Eites. "We will be destroyed in two weeks! We need weapons now! Sell us those... self-loading rifles of yours! Or resell what you buy from the Russians!"

  Gandolph's face hardened.

  "Impossible. The Technology Export Law prohibits the transfer of weapons to countries outside the civilized zones. As for Russian goods..." he lowered his voice. "The treaty with the Russian Federation prohibits the re-export of any dual-use technologies under threat of a complete severance of relations. We cannot risk the alliance with Russia for your sake. Forgive me."

  It was a sentence. Polite, diplomatic, but a death sentence. Mu was too frightened itself to save others.

  "However," added Gandolph, "at the upcoming Conference of 11 Nations in Cartalpas, we will raise the issue of sanctions against Gra-Valkas. We will create a coalition. That is the only thing we can promise."

  Viri left the office feeling empty. "Two months." That meant "hold on until you die."

  "We are flying to Mirishial," he said firmly to the Prince. "If technology is powerless, perhaps magic still means something."

  One week later. Holy Mirishial Empire. Runepolis.

  The contrast after Mu was stunning. If Maekal was a city of smoke and steel, then Runepolis was a city of light and marble. But even here, in the golden cage of magical civilization, the same smell of fear reigned.

  The reception room of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was overcrowded. Ambassadors from all over the world, terrified by rumors of "iron demons from the West," were trying to get an audience.

  "Wait. Your application is number 148 in the queue," a clerk in a snow-white robe tossed out indifferently.

  "But we are official ambassadors! We face annihilation!" Viri exploded.

  "Everyone faces annihilation here, My Lord. And there is only one Empire."

  Days went by. Hope melted away. Gra-Valkas could strike at any minute.

  And then young Prince Eites, leafing through a local newspaper, saw a strange note on the back page. "Opening of the Trade Representation of the Russian Federation. Exclusive goods from another world."

  "Viri," he said, his eyes lighting up with a feverish gleam. "We are knocking on the wrong doors. Remember the flags on the ships in the port of Mu and that bus? Those are not myths. They are here. They have an office."

  "Russia?" Viri rubbed his forehead wearily. "Your Highness, they are savages from the East. Yes, they sell cars, but..."

  "Savages do not build what we saw in Mu. And they do not force Mu to tremble before their laws. We are going to them. Right now."

  Trade Representation of the Russian Federation (De facto Consulate). Runepolis.

  The building rented by the Russians stood out for its alien severity. No molding, no crystals. Tinted glass, video surveillance cameras along the perimeter, and two security guys at the entrance in inconspicuous but perfectly fitting suits, beneath which holsters were clearly guessable.

  "Halt. Purpose of visit?" the guard did not bow to the Prince. He simply barred the way with his arm.

  "I am Prince Eites, heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Irnetia. With me is Lord Viri. We ask for asylum... that is, negotiations with a representative of the Russian Federation."

  The guard looked at them for a second, then pressed a finger to his ear:

  "'First', two at the gate. Irnetians. Yes. Crown Prince. Claim it's urgent. ...Copy."

  The door opened with a quiet magnetic click.

  "Go inside. You are expected. Second floor, office of the Deputy Trade Attaché."

  It was cool inside. An air conditioner hummed. In the reception area, they were met by a middle-aged man who introduced himself as Nikolai Krasnov (in reality—an SVR officer under cover).

  "Please, sit down. Tea, coffee?" his voice was calm and businesslike.

  "Mr. Krasnov," began Viri, deciding to discard protocol. "We have heard that your country... possesses power. We are desperate. Gra-Valkas demands our surrender. Mu refused weapons. Mirishial ignores us. You are our last hope. Is it true that you defeated Parpaldia? Is it true that your ships are stronger than steel?"

  Krasnov stopped stirring his tea with a spoon. He raised his gray, attentive eyes to them.

  "True. We defeated Parpaldia." He fell silent, assessing the situation. Reports on the ultimatum to Irnetia were already lying in Moscow. The Prince's visit was a gift. "But we are not a charitable organization, Your Highness. Russia adheres to a policy of neutrality. However... we really do not like it when someone upsets the balance of power and hurts the little guys."

  He pressed a button on the intercom.

  "Katya, bring the 'West Wind' folder. And connect me with the Ambassador. We have a topic for conversation."

  He turned back to the Irnetians, who had turned pale with hope.

  "Let's discuss what Irnetia can offer Russia. If we find common interests... perhaps the Gra-Valkas Empire will have to reconsider its plans."

  Central World. Kingdom of Irnetia. Lampal Castle.

  It was stuffy in the Council Hall. The windows were closed to block out the anxious tolling of bells in the city, but the smell of fear seemed to have permeated the very tapestries on the walls. King Irtis XIII sat at the head of the table, clutching the dispatch delivered to him from Dallas, the Gra-Valkas ambassador.

  This was not an ultimatum. It was a warrant for the liquidation of the state. "Complete and unconditional submission. Transfer of all resources. Dissolution of the army."

  "It is impossible, Your Majesty," General Nizuel spoke quietly, but every word fell like a stone. "If we accept these terms, Irnetia ceases to exist today. If we refuse—it ceases to exist tomorrow. The choice stands not between life and death, but between shame and honor."

  The King looked up. He was old, but in that moment, the blood of the ancient warrior-kings who founded this country awoke in him.

  "We will not become slaves. They think we are savages who will fall to our knees at the sight of a big ship. We will show them that Irnetia has teeth."

  He quickly wrote a single line on the parchment: "The Kingdom of Irnetia does not negotiate with invaders. Get out of our waters."

  "Send the response. Declare general mobilization. General, bring the fleet to full combat readiness. If they want war—they shall have it."

  Gra-Valkas Flagship Battleship "Grade Atlastar". Dohbai Port Roadstead.

  Captain Luxtal stood on the bridge of the super-battleship, impassively watching as the small boat with the Irnetian messenger pushed away from the side. The messenger handed over the packet and hurried to get away.

  Next to the captain stood Dallas, the diplomat. He opened the letter, scanned the line, and smiled coldly.

  "They chose death. What predictable boredom. These primitives do not understand the language of logic; they only understand the language of force." Dallas crumpled the parchment and threw it into the bin. "Captain Luxtal. Implement protocol 'Coercion to Obedience.' Impact level—maximum."

  "Copy that," Luxtal turned to the chief gunnery officer. "Battle stations. Target—port infrastructure and fleet at anchor. Main caliber—high-explosive. Secondary—armor-piercing on the ships. Erase them."

  The enormous ship, a monster displacing 72,000 tons, came alive. The main caliber turrets—nine monstrous barrels of 460-millimeter caliber—began to rotate with a low, heavy rumble.

  Port Dohbai. Flagship of the Irnetian Fleet "Repsilon".

  Admiral Leveit watched as the barrels of the enemy leviathan turned in their direction. This sight froze the blood. The enemy ship was a mountain of steel. But Leveit had a plan. Desperate, insane, but a plan.

  "All ships of the fleet! Listen to my command!" his voice, amplified by magic, spread over the water. "The enemy is huge and clumsy. We will use our advantage! Activate the 'Wind Wrath' accelerators! Remove limiters! We are going for a ramming strike and point-blank fire! Forward, sons of Irnetia!"

  Irnetian engineers had performed a miracle. Overloaded mana-crystals, "Tears of the Wind God," were installed on the bottoms of their wooden ships of the line. At the signal of the mages, the limiters were torn off.

  The water astern of the Repsilon boiled. The wooden hull creaked, ready to fall apart from the overload. The ship tore from its spot, reaching an unthinkable 31 knots for a sailing vessel. Following it, formed in a wedge, rushed the remaining 17 ships of the fleet.

  It was a magnificent, suicidal attack. Leveit hoped to slip through under fire, close to a distance of a kilometer, and unleash a squall of magic cannonballs on the enemy.

  On the bridge of the Grade Atlastar, the officers observed this maneuver with slight surprise.

  "Targets accelerating! Speed 30 knots! Are they going for a torpedo attack?" reported the rangefinder operator.

  "That is an attack of desperation," Luxtal answered indifferently. "Time to end this circus. Secondary caliber (155 mm)—rapid fire on targets—salvo."

  The Repsilon raced over the waves.

  "We will break through! Just a little more! Load guns to maximum!" Leveit screamed, watching the steel wall of the enemy side grow. "FIRE!"

  The Irnetians' magic cannons barked. Dozens of glowing cannonballs struck the side of the Atlastar.

  DZYN! BAM!

  Projectiles designed to penetrate wooden hulls shattered impotently into dust against 410 millimeters of hardened armor steel. Only soot and scratches remained on the gray paint.

  "Impossible..." whispered Leveit.

  And in the next second, the Atlastar responded.

  Not even with the main caliber. Its 155-mm guns, guided by radar (for this world—simply the most precise optics and computers), fired a salvo.

  Armor-piercing shells stitched the Repsilon through and through. Wood, magic, people—everything mixed into a bloody mush. Detonation tore the flagship apart from the inside.

  The Irnetian fleet ceased to exist in three minutes. This was not a battle. This was a slaughter.

  Cilkrus. Operational Headquarters.

  The reports were interrupted by a scream in the manacomm.

  "Fleet destroyed! Enemy... Enemy turns turrets on the city!"

  General Nizuel and King Irtis exchanged glances.

  "Thirty kilometers to the capital. Their guns cannot..."

  BO-O-OM!

  The sound came with a delay, a low, guttural blow that made the castle walls tremble.

  A 460 mm caliber shell weighs one and a half tons. When it falls on a city after flying 30 kilometers on a ballistic trajectory, a local earthquake occurs.

  The first shell fell on the market square. The explosion of the high-explosive warhead swept away an entire block. Houses simply vanished, turning into dust. People simply evaporated.

  "They are shooting us like in a shooting gallery..." whispered the King.

  The second shell hit the East Tower of Lampal Castle. The tower didn't collapse—it exploded from within. The King and the General were covered by debris of ancient masonry, putting an end to the history of the kingdom.

  Kilkrus burned. Gra-Valkas methodically, square by square, turned the blossoming trading capital into a lunar landscape, demonstrating to the whole world the meaning of the "Total War Doctrine."

  Lalua Plain (last line of defense before the capital). Dawn.

  A gray, viscous predawn fog crept over the plain, hiding the scale of preparations. Count Shogo, commander of the Western Army, paced nervously along the parapet of a freshly dug trench. He was considered a tactical genius, the hope of the kingdom. Having studied the meager rumors about Gra-Valkas methods, he ordered the soldiers not to form up in beautiful but useless on open terrain "boxes," but to dig into the ground.

  Five thousand of the kingdom's best soldiers, armed with muskets and reinforced by twenty field magic cannons, waited for the enemy in deep ditches covered with turf.

  "Let them come," muttered Shogo, pressing a spyglass to his eye. His hands trembled slightly from the morning cold and tension.

  "We will meet them with grazing fire from cover. The cavalry will strike the flank when they get bogged down. This is our land, and it will fight with us."

  But the enemy did not come as they expected. He did not appear on the horizon with drum beats and banners.

  First came the sound. A thin, rising whistle coming from the heavens, resembling the scream of a huge metallic bird.

  None of Shogo's soldiers saw the flashes of gunfire. The howitzer batteries of the Gra-Valkas expeditionary corps stood behind the hills, five kilometers from the front line, working on precise coordinates transmitted by spotter planes circling high in the clouds.

  BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!

  The earth shuddered and reared up. The first series of 105-mm high-explosive shells landed with frightening density, only slightly overshooting the first line.

  "Is that explosion magic?! From where?! I don't see mages!" screamed a young lieutenant, covering his head with his hands.

  "Everyone into cover! Press into the ground!" yelled Shogo, realizing this was only ranging fire.

  The second series covered the trenches with mathematical precision. The plain turned into hell. Earth flew into the air in fountains, mixing with pieces of bodies and weapons. Shrapnel and fragments mowed down people hiding in holes that instantly became their graves. Perfectly drawn defense lines turned into a churned bloody mess in ten minutes of continuous artillery preparation. The psychological effect was monstrous: soldiers died by the hundreds without seeing the enemy and having not a single chance to respond.

  When the cannonade subsided, and the ringing in concussed ears settled slightly, the surviving lookouts, coughing from dust, screamed:

  "The enemy advances! Look!"

  Out of the smoke and dust, they crawled. Not cavalry. Not infantry.

  "Iron boxes." Angular, clanking with tracks, spewing black, greasy diesel smoke. These were the medium tanks of the Imperial Army—steel monsters weighing twenty tons. They moved in a wedge, covering infantry in gray greatcoats with their hulls.

  "Artillery! Fire on the iron beasts! Hit them with magic!" commanded Shogo, trying to shout over the clatter of tracks.

  Magic cannons, miraculously surviving and camouflaged in the bushes, opened fire. The crews worked cohesively, as if in training. Fireballs struck the tanks.

  Bright flashes of magic enveloped the lead vehicle. Irnetian soldiers shouted "Hurrah!", expecting to see a pile of melted metal.

  But the tank drove out of the fire without even slowing down. Only black soot remained on its sloped frontal armor. Hardened cemented steel, designed to withstand hits from anti-tank rifles, didn't even feel the impact of low-density magic plasma.

  The tank's turret turned toward the flash with a predatory mechanical hum.

  BANG!

  The short-barreled 75-mm gun barked, and the magic cannon crew, along with their weapon, vanished in the cloud of a high-explosive shell burst.

  Hull and turret machine guns began to speak. It was not the disorderly crackle of muskets, but a continuous, leaden stream, cutting down everything living that tried to raise its head above the parapet.

  "Cavalry! Charge! Save the flanks! For the King!" Count Shogo threw his last reserve into battle in desperation.

  Five hundred knights clad in plate armor on armored horses, the flower of Irnetian nobility, lances at the ready, rushed like an avalanche at the right flank of the attackers. It was a majestic, beautiful, and absolutely senseless spectacle. An attack of the past upon the future.

  The Gra-Valkas tank commanders didn't even bother to turn their turrets. The infantry walking behind the armor simply went prone and opened squall fire from light machine guns.

  BR-R-R-R-R-R!

  The cavalry avalanche seemed to hit an invisible wall. Horses fell, somersaulting over their heads; knights, punched through and through, flew from their saddles, turning into a pile of scrap metal. The attack choked in two minutes. Not a single rider reached closer than one hundred meters to the tanks. The field was covered with the corpses of the nation's elite.

  Count Shogo, dirty, concussed, with a torn epaulet, looked at this slaughter with a glazed stare. He realized: everything he had been taught in academies, all books on tactics, all the experience of ancestors—all of it was garbage. He was fighting aliens from a nightmare against whom he had no defense.

  "For the King..." he wheezed, drawing his family sword.

  He didn't run. He simply walked out of the trench and went to meet the clanking tank to die standing, as befits a nobleman. A short machine-gun burst crossed out his chest, putting a bloody period in the history of the Western Army.

  Royal Palace Lampal. Noon.

  The war for survival, promised by General Nizuel, had de facto ended in a rout in a few hours. News arrived not by carrier pigeon, but as panicked screams over the manacomm.

  "Western Army destroyed! Count Shogo is dead!"

  "Royal Navy is at the bottom! Ships burning in the harbor!"

  "Enemy iron carriages have broken the defense line and are twenty-five kilometers from the capital!"

  General Nizuel slowly placed the communication crystal on the table. His hand, usually steady as rock, trembled slightly.

  "Your Majesty... This is the end. They move faster than we can retreat. They see us, but we do not see them."

  King Irtis XIII sat on his throne, gripping the armrests so hard his fingers turned white. He was in full ceremonial attire, with a heavy golden crown on his head, which now seemed to him a crown of thorns. It was unnaturally quiet in the huge, empty hall, but outside the chaos of evacuation, screams, and crying had already begun.

  "Leave, General," the King said quietly. His voice was dry and firm. "And you, my son... and all of you. Run. Find Lord Viri. Find allies across the sea. There is nothing for you to do here."

  "Father! I will not leave you! I will stay to fight!" the young prince shouted, grabbing his sword.

  "No!" The King raised his voice for the first time, and steel rang in it. "If you die, Irnetia dies too. As long as the heir lives—hope lives. As for me... they told me clearly: 'Personal capitulation or blood.' I stay. I will receive them here."

  Suddenly, the air above the city filled with a terrifying, piercing howl that seemed to make the windowpanes vibrate.

  WROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO...

  The sound grew, pressing on the psyche, causing primal, uncontrollable terror.

  "What is that?! Demons?!" the court mage screamed, looking at the ceiling.

  These were the "Jericho Trumpets." A flight of Sirius dive bombers, entering a vertical dive, was approaching the target—the Royal Castle.

  Unlike the chaotic raids of wyverns, this was the cold mathematics of destruction.

  The first 500 kg bomb struck the fortress wall with perfect precision. The ancient masonry, standing for a thousand years, sprayed in all directions like sand. The second explosion tore apart the guard barracks, turning them into a mass grave.

  The third bomb, with a delayed fuse, punched through the roof of the throne room.

  King Irtis raised his eyes to the ceiling. In the breach, he saw not the sky, but falling death.

  "Forgive me, my people..."

  BOOOOM!

  The explosion was of such force that the eastern wing of the palace simply folded in on itself. The King, the General, and the last defenders were buried under tons of stone and fire.

  Three days later. Ruins of Сilkrus.

  The Irnetian army fought with the desperate heroism of the doomed even after the death of the king. They tried to use the terrain folds, lure the enemy into narrow gorges, strike on the sly.

  But it was all in vain. Heroism shattered against the system of modern warfare.

  The enemy didn't "guess" their tactics. He saw them.

  "Group 'Bravo', artillery ready. Correction: grid 4-12. Use high-explosive. Fire," the Gra-Valkas spotter, hanging in the sky in a reconnaissance plane, spoke indifferently into the radio.

  Irnetian ambushes, seeming perfect on the ground, were in the palm of their hand from the air. As soon as resistance units concentrated for a strike, they were covered by artillery or bombs. It was not a battle. It was a methodical grinding.

  The finale came on the square in front of the ruins of the Royal Palace. Under the roar of the burning city, amidst black, choking smoke, the Gra-Valkas Empire administered its justice.

  Those who refused to lay down arms—the last guardsmen and nobles—were strung up without trial on the surviving trees in the royal garden. Their bodies became the first symbol of the "new order."

  The King himself (miraculously surviving under the rubble but found by the occupiers), beaten, in rags, was led to the wall. A platoon lined up before him.

  "For refusal of integration and criminal resistance to the progress of the Empire," the officer read the sentence.

  A volley cut short the life of Irnetia's last monarch.

  The thousand-year history of the sovereign kingdom was officially ended, trampled by the boot of a Gra-Valkas soldier.

  But if the army died, hatred was just being born.

  "They think they won?" whispered an old blacksmith in a cellar, clutching a bottle of combustible mixture. "Welcome to hell, you scum."

  The occupation turned into a nightmare. The subjects did not forgive. Peaceful merchants turned into killers. Gra-Valkas soldiers died in dark alleys with slit throats, supply trucks exploded, patrols feared entering poor quarters.

  Everything spun into a bloody kaleidoscope of urban guerrilla warfare. Blood on the walls, filth, screams in the torture chambers of the secret police, the dull rumble of terrorist attacks, and the pops of resistance rifles at night. Irnetia was dead as a state, but like a wounded beast, it clamped onto its killer's throat with a death grip.