The Russian Federation. Moscow. The Kremlin. Security Council Situation Room.

  November 22, Year 0002. 10:00 Moscow Time.

  A heavy, leaden silence hung beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Situation Room, broken only by the barely audible, monotonous hum of secure communications servers and the rare rustle of turning pages. The air in the room was cool and conditioned, yet many present—the top leadership of a nuclear superpower—felt sticky, cold sweat trickling down their backs.

  Today's report did not concern the fleets of foreign empires, wyvern movements, or diplomatic notes. It concerned something more terrible than any external invasion—a knife in the back.

  President of the Russian Federation Mikhail Romanov sat at the head of a huge oval table made of bog oak. His face remained a mask of absolute calm. Before him lay a thick red folder stamped "Top Secret. Single Copy." He slowly, with frightening precision, turned a page. In the dead silence, the sound seemed like a gunshot.

  FSB Director Army General Alexander Bortnikov stood at the speaker's podium. He looked haggard, his skin having taken on a gray hue, but his voice sounded firm, like the strike of a hammer, emphasizing every phrase of the terrible report.

  "Comrade Supreme Commander-in-Chief, Comrade Members of the Security Council," he began, not looking at his papers; he had memorized every number and name, and they burned in his memory. "I am reporting on the results of the final phase of Operation 'Clear Horizon.' During the reporting period—three months—agencies of the Federal Security Service have uncovered and neutralized an extensive network of deeply conspiratorial subversive-terrorist and occult cells in twenty-two constituent entities of the Federation."

  Smirnov pressed a button on the remote. The giant wall screens came to life, highlighting a map of Russia. It looked like a patient covered in the rash of a disease: red markers pulsed from Kaliningrad to Vladivostok, clustering in the industrial centers of the Urals and Moscow.

  "All fourteen identified cells had direct, or more often indirect, 'blind' connections with the perpetrators of the terrorist attack at the State Historical Museum on Mokhovaya. The nature of their structure is unique: autonomous, networked, with a complete absence of the vertical hierarchy typical for Earth terrorists. Control was exercised through a system of caches, 'dead' drops, and..." he made a heavy pause, "...non-standard communication channels of a psycho-magical nature not susceptible to direction finding, the nature of which we are only beginning to understand."

  The President did not raise his eyes from the report, but his finger froze on a line.

  "Results of the implementation?" he asked briefly, dryly.

  "Seized," the FSB Director continued, and lists began to scroll on the screens, accompanied by operational photographs that reeked of war. "Ninety-two units of rifled firearms, explosives, and special equipment. Including: twenty AKM assault rifles of 7.62 caliber, twelve modernized AKMS with silencers, ten AKS-74s, four Mosin sniper rifles with modern optics, fifteen Makarov pistols with filed-off serial numbers. Also discovered was a whole arsenal of explosive devices: fifteen RGD-5 grenades, sixteen defensive F-1s, homemade bombs filled with shrapnel."

  The photographs changed one after another: dirty basements, crates of ammunition, disassembled weapons on kitchen tables of safe houses.

  The Minister of Defense leaned forward abruptly, his face turning purple.

  "Where are the guns from, Victor?" he interrupted, clenching his fists until his knuckles cracked. "Judging by the markings—those are ours, army series. Is this a leak from active warehouses?"

  "Negative. Partially theft from long-term storage depots, echoes of the 90s. Partially 'black digging,' restored weapons. But the supply channel was centralized. And that, unfortunately, is not the worst part."

  The FSB Director pressed the button again. The image on the screen changed. Instead of the usual iron and TNT, things appeared that belonged in horror movies or fantasy, not in a 21st-century intelligence service report. Laid out on investigators' tables were thick notebooks bound in unknown leather, inscribed with complex geometric symbols, strange crystals glowing in thermal imaging, and crude amulets of black stone.

  "In addition to weapons, an array of literature and documentation of unidentified origin was seized. Anonymous treatises, diaries with ciphers impervious to classical computer cryptanalysis. Our specialists from the Institute of Cryptography are working jointly with linguists from the Academy of Sciences around the clock. The preliminary conclusion is shocking: this is not just a cipher. These are instructions for conducting mental rituals, methods of neuro-linguistic programming and psychological influence adapted to the human psyche."

  Smirnov took a deep breath, as if before plunging into icy water. The hardest part of the report was ahead.

  "During operational development and interrogations of detainees, we established direct participation in coordinating the activities of these cells by persons from the senior officer corps of the Armed Forces. Both reserve and active duty."

  Dead, absolute silence hung in the hall. Even time seemed to stop. Treason at such a level was unthinkable.

  "Based on materials from the Department of Military Counterintelligence, the following have been detained and are giving confessional testimony:" Smirnov's voice sounded like a sentence, "Colonel of Rear Services Zuev. Reserve Colonel Lesnoy. District Staff Colonel Borisov. But the key figure... The main suspect, the network coordinator and ideologue in our region is... Major General Vasily Eduardovich Likhachev."

  The name sounded like a point-blank shot. The generals exchanged glances. Likhachev. Hero of the First Contact. Veteran of the war with Louria, awarded personally by the President. A man with an impeccable, crystal-clear reputation as a patriot.

  The President slowly raised his head. There was no surprise or anger in his eyes. There was only icy, arctic cold.

  "Is Likhachev in custody?"

  "Yes, sir, Comrade President. The operation was carried out by forces of the FSB Special Purpose Center tonight, at his place of residence. Taken 'warm,' offered no resistance. At the moment of detention, he was in a state of... altered consciousness, close to a trance. Currently, all figures have been transferred to the special block of the Lefortovo pre-trial detention center and are in complete isolation. Due to exceptional complexity and a confirmed 'paranormal' component, specialists from Directorate 'K'—the department for the study of magic—have been brought in for interrogations."

  Smirnov nodded toward a man sitting in the shadows at the far end of the table. It was Sergey Anatolyevich, head of Russia's most secret new structure, whose name was never mentioned in the news. He responded with a short, heavy nod.

  The gravity of the situation physically weighed on the shoulders of everyone present. Treason at the level of the generals, magical influence, a network of terrorists inside the country... This was a symptom of a disease that could kill the state faster than any Gra-Valkan armada. The enemy had learned to strike not at armor. He struck at souls, at minds, using technologies against which Russia had no defense yet.

  The President held the FSB Director's gaze. For a long ten seconds, only the rushing of blood in ears could be heard in the hall.

  "Good work, Victor," President Romanov finally said. His voice was calm, but the steel of a bolt carrier clanged within it. "Thank you and your people. But you understand that this is only the tip of the iceberg. This is the beginning, not the end. Open this abscess completely. Turn it inside out."

  He stood up, leaning his fists on the table.

  "I don't care who stands behind this—fanatics, mages, demons from ancient legends, or traitors from our past. Rip it out by the roots. I authorize the use of special means during interrogations of the highest category. I need the clients. I need the 'head of the snake.' This contagion must not take root in our land. Proceed."

  The session continued.

  As soon as the heavy doors closed behind the FSB Director and his entourage, the atmosphere in the hall changed. It became less formal but even more oppressive. The air thickened with cigarette smoke—the President permitted this on special occasions—and unspoken questions.

  A new map appeared on the interactive table—a tactical schematic of the "Mariet" sector on the Rodenius continent, peppered with alarming red combat markers.

  "Moving on to the second question," the President's voice sounded dull, steel underlying it. "The incident at Oil Refinery Station No. 35. Vladimir Yurievich, I've read the preliminary PMC report. Is it really that serious?"

  Minister of Defense Army General Vladimir Korshunov rose slowly from his seat. In his hands was not a paper report, but a secure military tablet. His face, usually calm and severe, now expressed an extreme degree of focus.

  "Unfortunately, the situation is confirmed, Comrade President. What you are about to see is footage from the body camera of one of the fallen mercenary commanders, recovered by our forensic experts at the GRU lab."

  On the main wall screen, replacing the map, jerky, grainy footage of a night battle in the infrared spectrum began to flash. Muzzle flashes blinded the optics, distortions of profanity through the microphone and the roar of heavy machine guns could be heard.

  And then a blurry, "flowing" silhouette appeared on the screen. The figure took a burst from a heavy machine gun at almost point-blank range. Instead of being torn to shreds, it flared with a blue geometric halo of a protective field. The next frame was the last: a streak of a shining plasma blade slicing through the camera and the operator. The screen went dark, plunging the hall into gloomy silence.

  Generals who had passed through Syria and the conflicts of the Old World looked at the black screen with unconcealed tension. This was not war. This was science fiction turned deadly reality.

  "Analysis by the Main Intelligence Directorate and Special Operations Forces experts confirms: we have encountered not savages, not the Barrat clan, and not local partisans," Korshunov began harshly. "The enemy is a highly organized SRG (sabotage and reconnaissance group) of unidentified affiliation. Equipment—fully sealed armor, presumably cermet or composite with integrated circuits of active magic protection. We haven't seen analogues from Parpaldia or even the vaunted Mirishial Empire."

  "Weaponry?" Romanov threw out shortly, making a note in his pad.

  "Portable close-quarters plasma generators and, probably, mage-kinetic muscle enhancers," the Chief of the General Staff intervened. "Judging by the nature of the wounds, the temperature of their blades exceeds four thousand degrees Celsius. They cut our armor like butter. But most alarming is their tactical mobility. These creatures... or people in exoskeletons... moved with speeds and reactions exceeding human capabilities threefold. This is a level close to our prospective experimental 'Ratnik-3' developments, only realized on an absolutely different, magical physical basis."

  "Conclusion? Whose 'guests' are these?" the President asked, looking at the map of Rodenius.

  "Someone is testing prospective weaponry on us or conducting reconnaissance-in-force," the Minister of Defense cut off. "We've reinforced the security of the 'Mariet' perimeter with a consolidated GRU Spetsnaz company and a T-90M tank platoon. But we need to change our approach. Standard 5.45 calibers against these shields are ineffective. We need the physics of heavy calibers—12.7, 30 millimeters, thermobaric munitions. We are also tasking the military-industrial complex: accelerate the development of hybrid defense systems. We must learn to block this magic."

  Romanov nodded.

  "An unknown enemy with 'superior' level technologies is operating in our rear... Sergey Anatolyevich," he turned to the head of Directorate "K", "connect your 'mages'. Whose signature is this? A secret Mirishial project? The legacy of Ravernal that dragons keep talking about? Or a third force we don't know about? Intelligence—work yourselves to the bone. Find the hole these devils crawled out of. Russian people have died, and I want to know the killer's name."

  The meeting continued. A new map appeared on the screen—now it was a global satellite projection of the western hemisphere, covered with a coordinate grid.

  "And finally, Comrade Supreme Commander-in-Chief. The orbital group," reported the Colonel General of the Aerospace Forces, responsible for space reconnaissance.

  The map zoomed in, showing the outlines of a huge continent located far to the west, beyond the Second Civilized Region.

  "The 'Geo-3' optical-electronic reconnaissance satellite has completed comprehensive mapping of the Western Ocean direction. We confirm the primary data of the Foreign Ministry."

  Images of the night side of the planet appeared on the screen. The dark landmass was densely peppered with bright, distinct, geometrically regular spots of golden light.

  "Note the spectral analysis," the general highlighted large clusters of light with a laser pointer. "These are not magic torches or bonfires. This is electricity. The spectrum of incandescent lamps and sodium gas-discharge lamps. We are recording dense urban development of an industrial type."

  The images changed to high-resolution daytime photos. The hall froze. Visible on them were not castles and fortress walls, but wide avenues, factory chimneys spewing smoke, railways with trains, and huge port terminals with gantry cranes.

  "Linear infrastructure characteristic of developed industrial powers at the level of the mid-20th century of our Earth. Airfields with concrete paving up to three kilometers long—clearly for heavy bomber aviation."

  "The metropole of the Gra-Valkas Empire?" Romanov clarified, examining a picture of a giant dry dock housing an unfinished ship hull, comparable in size to that very *Atlastar* currently standing in the port of Cartalpas.

  "Yes, sir. This is their home," confirmed the general. "And, judging by the powerful electromagnetic background, they possess not only radio communications but also, probably, early long-range radar systems. If they mobilize this economy, the fleet we saw in Cartalpas is just the tip of the iceberg."

  "Understood," Romanov rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. The world Russia had fallen into was shrinking, becoming increasingly tight and dangerous. On one side—invulnerable magic saboteurs; on the other—an industrial giant ready for world war. "So, we are not the only ones with 'Ilyich's bulb' in this Middle Ages. GRU and Aerospace Forces intelligence—prepare a comprehensive threat assessment. How many tanks can they produce a year? What is their oil production? Are there signs of a nuclear program? I want to know their breaking point."

  Defense Minister Korshunov turned the last page of the report.

  "Regarding exercises, Comrade Supreme Commander-in-Chief. The second stage of the 'Vostok-2029' maneuvers at the ranges of the Eastern District has been completed successfully. Tactics for suppressing magically active area targets using TOS-1A 'Solntsepek' and aerial cluster bombs have been worked out. The results are being implemented in the troops."

  Silence fell in the hall again, but now it was businesslike. The military and intelligence part was finished. Facts were presented, threats identified. It was time for science to try to explain what the military could only record or destroy.

  "Good. Invite the academicians," ordered President Romanov, closing the red folder. "Let's listen to what our 'Joint Scientific-Magic Academy' has to say."

  A group of people entered the hall, rustling with robes and business suits. At the head of the procession walked the rectors of the leading scientific-educational institution of the New World—the Joint Scientific-Magic Academy. On the left—a tall, balding man with intelligent eyes, Academician Mikhail Anatolyevich Sukhov. On the right—a stately high elf in an archmage's robe, Atorus Van Toris.

  A schematic appeared on the large screen that would make any Old World engineer dizzy. It was a drawing of a human figure encased in angular armor permeated with glowing channels.

  "Comrade Supreme Commander-in-Chief," began Sukhov, his voice sounding confident but with a note of a pioneer's excitement. "We are happy to report the completion of the laboratory and bench testing cycle for the 'Boyets-M' item."

  Atorus made a pass with his hand, and the hologram became volumetric, rotating in the air.

  "This is the first fully realized prototype of a mage-mechanical exoskeleton," continued the elf in his melodious voice, which contrasted strangely with the dry military hall. "We abandoned heavy hydraulics in favor of magi-muscles grown using Qua-Toyne technologies but reinforced with your composite materials. This reduced weight by 40% and increased autonomy."

  "Load capacity? Armor?" asked Defense Minister Korshunov in a businesslike manner.

  "Wearable weight—up to 150 kilograms without loss of mobility. Armor—class five ceramic plus an active rune circuit dissipating kinetic energy," answered Sukhov. "The model is oriented towards special forces assault units and sappers. We propose conducting the first field tests in conditions as close to combat as possible."

  "Approved," nodded Korshunov, glancing at the President. He gave silent consent. "We'll connect the 'Senezh' Special Purpose Center and the Guards. I need to know how this thing behaves in the mud, not in a lab."

  The next slide was less spectacular but no less important. An image of a small black box with crystal-like antennas appeared on the screen.

  "In the direction of electronic warfare," continued Sukhov. "The Department of Theoretical Spectro-Astral Engineering has made a breakthrough. Item 'Silence-4'. This is the first jammer operating not in the radio, but in the mana range."

  Atorus nodded:

  "We found a way to create 'white noise' in the ether, breaking 'Manacomm' communication channels. The radius is modest so far—guaranteed suppression up to four kilometers. But this completely deprives enemy commanders of troop control on the battlefield."

  "Four kilometers for storming a fortified area is more than enough," noted the Chief of the General Staff. "Accepted for development. Waiting for a pilot batch."

  Finally, a representative of the faculty of experimental military medicine, a gray-haired professor in glasses, took the floor. He looked gloomier than his colleagues.

  "And lastly, Comrade President. Medicine. After the incident at Refinery No. 35, our specialists extracted residues of a liquid found on the attackers. This is... a unique substance."

  A complex chemical formula with interspersed unknown elements appeared on the screen.

  "We were able to, let's say, 'cleanse' this cocktail of aggressive magic and toxins. The resulting preparation received the code name 'OSMNO-1'."

  "What is it?" asked Romanov.

  "A new generation combat analgesic," answered the professor. "Blocks any pain syndrome within ten seconds after administration. Moreover, unlike promedol or morphine, it absolutely does not affect cognitive functions and does not cause narcotic intoxication. A soldier with a blown-off leg will be able to conduct aimed fire and solve tactical tasks."

  A whisper went through the hall. It was too good to be true.

  "Side effects?"

  "Accelerated metabolism, slight exhaustion after the effect wears off. But no addiction. We recommend it for equipping fighters in high-risk zones."

  "Approved," Romanov closed the folder. His gaze became heavy. "And, Mikhail Anatolyevich, convey to your people: submit lists of lead developers for all three projects. Bonuses, state awards. You are giving us a sword and shield in this new world."

  The pause after the previous report was short. Mikhail Anatolyevich Sukhov approached the podium again, but this time his face was not just serious—it read a mix of scientific triumph and deep human concern. Behind him, a complex diagram of a human skeleton and nervous system unfolded on the screen, highlighted with areas of biologically active growth.

  "Comrade President," began the rector for scientific affairs, adjusting his glasses. "The next question concerns Project 'Regeneration+'. This is a joint effort of the Faculty of Magobiology under the leadership of Mr. Van Toris and the Laboratory of Integrative Medicine of the Sklifosovsky Institute."

  A video shot in a sterile ward appeared on the screen. A man lay on the bunk, judging by the scars—a war veteran. His left arm was missing up to the shoulder joint.

  "The problem of prosthetics in our world is acute. Cybernetics is expensive and difficult to maintain at the front. We went a different way. A volunteer test subject, a veteran of the First Rodenius Campaign, Reserve Senior Sergeant Kovalchuk, was injected with the experimental retro-viral serum 'BNBD-106'."

  "Principle of action?" asked the Minister of Defense shortly.

  "Symbiosis. The serum contains stem cells reprogrammed using elven Life Magic and stabilized protein chains created in an ether-crystal matrix. Essentially, we 'tricked' the body's genetic memory, forcing it to return to the embryonic stage of tissue formation at a specific point."

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  Sukhov switched the slide. In the photo was a stump turned into an ugly, pulsating cocoon of flesh and bone mass.

  "The process wasn't... magical," confessed the rector. "At early stages, explosive growth of bone tissue and nerve endings caused pain syndrome of such intensity that the subject experienced clinical death from shock twice. Ordinary opiates couldn't cope. Only the application of that very 'OSMNO-1' preparation my colleague reported on saved him."

  The hall was silent, looking at frames reminiscent of a horror movie. Regeneration in reality looked not like a flash of light, but like an agonizing restructuring of the organism.

  "To preserve the patient's sanity and reduce the brain's energy consumption, he was put into an artificial magi-medical coma for ten weeks."

  Timelapses appeared on the screen. The arm grew. First white, cartilaginous bone, then red bundles of muscles weaving like living snakes, a network of vessels, and finally, skin.

  "Result," proclaimed Sukhov, bringing up a photo of a happy but exhausted man raising his left arm. "Complete anatomical and functional restoration of the limb. Fine motor skills restored to 98%. Neurological status—normal."

  "Price?" asked the President. "Nobody canceled the laws of conservation of energy, even with magic."

  "You are right, Vladimir Vladimirovich. This wasn't magic out of thin air. The body took building material from itself. Over ten weeks, the subject's body mass decreased by sixteen kilograms. Muscle dystrophy, leaching of calcium from other bones—he essentially 'ate' a part of himself to build an arm."

  "And one more nuance," added Atorus Van Toris. "The new arm corresponds biologically to the age of 14-16 years. Tissues are young, having no age-related changes. The subject complains of dissociation—'tingling' and a sense of alienness, as if the arm belongs to another. Psychologists are working on integrating the body image."

  "After coming out of the coma, the patient experienced a metabolic storm," Sukhov returned to the report. "Abnormal, uncontrolled appetite. The body demanded to replenish the deficit in emergency mode."

  A list flashed on the screen, looking more like a receipt from a grocery warehouse than a hospital diet.

  "In one meal lasting four hours, the patient consumed thirty-six thousand kilocalories. The diet included special rations of increased energy density: dried bananas, millet porridge on heavy cream, macadamia nuts, kilograms of milk chocolate, duck meat, and pork. The digestive system worked in overload mode, processing matter into growth energy with almost one hundred percent efficiency."

  Sukhov took off his glasses and wiped them.

  "We have learned to grow soldiers anew, comrades. For now—in parts. It is expensive, painful, and risky. But it works. We can return the best to the ranks."

  President Romanov looked carefully at the changing frames. On the face of the soldier squeezing a grip trainer with a new, slightly thinner and pinker hand, was the smile of a man given his life back.

  "Accepted," the Head of State nodded briefly. His voice sounded solemn. "This is an achievement of strategic scale. We don't leave our own behind—now that's not a slogan, but a medical fact."

  He made a note on the decree lying before him.

  "Award the leading developers of the project, as well as the group itself that synthesized the 'BNBD-106' serum, Orders 'For Merit to the Fatherland' II class. To the support staff—insignias 'For Impeccable Service'. Accounting to ensure triple bonuses for all laboratory personnel. And resolve the housing issue: allocate apartments in the new fund near the Academy. Scientists should think about science, not mortgages. Proceed."

  The meeting came to an end.

  The scientists left the hall, leaving the generals and ministers to digest the information about biomechanical prostheses. The floor passed to the Minister of Health. He stood up, smoothing the pages of his report, looking tired, but the fire of a man standing on the threshold of the greatest discovery in the history of medicine burned in his eyes.

  "Comrade President, let's move to questions of demography and biological safety," he began. "Data received from perinatal centers across the country confirms the hypothesis of our geneticists. We are mutating. Or, to use official terminology, adapting."

  A graph appeared on the screen, its curve going sharply upward.

  "Over the last six months, during neonatal screening of newborn citizens of the RF, signs of so-called 'innate mana-activity' are increasingly recorded. This is not a pathology. This is the new norm. The saturated ether background of the planet influences fetal formation. We are birthing not quite people of Earth anymore. We are birthing people of this world."

  Silence hung in the hall. It's one thing to use magic as a tool, another to accept it into one's blood.

  "In connection with this, a sharp discussion arose with the Ministry of Education," continued the Minister. "A group of experts proposed initiating the creation of closed special boarding schools and separate educational programs for children with a high magic index. The argument—safety of peers and specific learning needs."

  "A ghetto for mages?" the President frowned.

  "Exactly, Vladimir Vladimirovich. We categorically rejected this idea. Creating an isolated caste of 'gifted' in ten-fifteen years will lead to a social explosion. The expert council approved a strategy of full integration. Gifted children will study in regular schools, but with mandatory electives on 'power control' and the ethics of ability use. We must raise citizens, not sorcerers."

  The Minister turned the page.

  "Now for the good news. The demographic pit we predicted after the chaos of the Transfer has been overcome. The overall birth rate has grown by 7% compared to the same period last year. People believed in stability. They see a future."

  He brought up a summary table for the regions of the Far East and Siberia on the screen.

  "The healer-mage integration project shows phenomenal results. In pilot regions—Primorye and Khabarovsk Krai—mortality from severe injuries and accidents in hospitals has decreased to a historic minimum of 5%. This is fantastic, comrades."

  The Minister pointed to the diagrams.

  "The combination of our resuscitation science, antibiotics, and surgery with elven healing magic works miracles. Where our medicine spends hours on stabilization, life magic copes in minutes, closing bleeding and knitting tissues. But!" he raised a finger. "We do not allow shamans with tambourines near patients. Every other-world specialist admitted to work in a City Clinical Hospital is a Master of Life no lower than 3rd rank who has passed the strictest state certification. They take exams in Russian language, basics of RF legislation, clinical psychology, and basic mathematics. We integrate them into our compulsory medical insurance system as highly qualified personnel, not miracle workers."

  "Expand the practice," summarized Romanov. "If it saves the lives of our people—to hell with bureaucracy. Certify, train, and put them at the operating tables. We need every person."

  The Minister nodded and sat down.

  The meeting, which began with a discussion of terrorism and unknown threats, ended with questions about the birth of a new nation.

  The clock showed four in the morning. Outside the Kremlin windows, over a sleeping, huge, and strong country, a cold November dawn was breaking. Russia, squeezed between the magic of the past and the technologies of the future, continued its path, changing every day, but remaining unconquered. The Security Council finished its work, but for the country, a new day was just beginning.

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  The Russian Federation. Tomsk. The Main Directorate of the FSB for the Tomsk Region.

  Two weeks before the Security Council meeting. Evening.

  Leaden clouds gathered outside the window of the Directorate's old brick building—harbingers of an early Siberian winter. Cold sleet whipped against the glass, blurring the lights of Lenin Avenue.

  Semidarkness reigned in the office of the Head of the Counter-Terrorism Department, Lieutenant Colonel Vereshchagin. The light of a desk lamp picked out stacks of folders and the flickering screen of a secure terminal from the gloom. The air smelled of cold coffee and tobacco smoke—Vereshchagin had quit smoking a year ago, but in moments of tension allowed himself "just one, for thinking."

  A short, regulation knock sounded on the massive door upholstered in soundproofing leatherette.

  "Come in," the Lieutenant Colonel responded, not tearing his reddened eyes away from the analytical report.

  A tall, sturdy man entered the office wearing a *Multicam* field uniform without insignias, save for the Major's shoulder boards he had pinned on solely for the report. In his hands, he held not just papers, but a tactical tablet and printed maps stamped "Secret." It was Major Dymov, commander of the operative-search unit.

  "Permission to enter, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel?"

  "Permission granted," Vereshchagin put down his pen and rubbed the bridge of his nose, shifting a heavy gaze to his subordinate. "What have you got, Andrei? Sit down. But give me the substance, skip the fluff."

  "Thank you," the man nodded, sinking into the stiff, government-issued chair opposite. He placed the tablet on the table and unfolded the map. "We've localized the group. The 'Shadows' target we've been working on for the last month. It's confirmed."

  The Major poked his finger at the map of the suburbs, in the area of the elite cottage development "Zarechny."

  "They're holed up in the private sector. Two-story red brick cottage, high fence, cameras on the perimeter. We've been conducting tight surveillance since they entered the region three days ago. We tracked them carefully; 'The Seven'—Surveillance Service—worked cleanly, the target didn't spot the tail."

  "Who is inside?" asked the Lieutenant Colonel, already scanning the assault schematic with his eyes.

  "Preliminary data says six. Two locals—recruited neophytes, former LARPers, dabbled in occultism. Four are 'guests.' Documents in the names of Russian citizens, but high-quality fakes. Their behavior is wary; they observe light discipline, go outside only when necessary. They work on a strict communication schedule."

  The Major swiped to the next slide on the tablet. Graphs with sharp peaks appeared on the screen.

  "Intelligence data was confirmed by instrumental control. We parked a Rostelecom van near the house with 'Ether-M' equipment—those new scanners sent from Moscow. The background radiation is off the charts, Dmitry Sergeyevich. These aren't radio waves. This is active magic. A stationary emitter is operating in the basement. They are maintaining a low-frequency spectrum dome—it jams wiretaps, but it glows in the astral like a reactor."

  The Lieutenant Colonel leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. The fingers of his right hand drummed mechanically on the table.

  "Cultists with artifacts... Damn sorcerers." He fell silent. "What do we have for the heavy lifting?"

  "The combined group is ready," the Major reported clearly. "The regional OSN—Special Purpose Detachment—'Cobalt' is already in position. Snipers control the perimeter and second-floor windows. The blocking group has cut off exits from the settlement under the guise of roadworks. The assault team is at the starting point, waiting only for your command. Full kit: shields, heavy armor, flashbangs."

  "Factor in the magic," Vereshchagin warned harshly. "Have the Special Forces been briefed?"

  "Yes, sir. The point team has experimental vests with ceramic plates and protective amulets confiscated from smugglers last month. Plus a staff mage-consultant is with them."

  The Lieutenant Colonel nodded slowly. The decision was made. They couldn't delay—if they spotted the surveillance or completed their ritual, the consequences could be unpredictable.

  "Approved. Get to work, Major," the Lieutenant Colonel's voice became dry and official. "Take them down quietly. Maximally clean. If possible—take them alive. We need tongues and communication channels to their handlers. If they offer magical resistance—fire to kill without warning. I forbid risking our people."

  Vereshchagin pulled the folder closer.

  "Start when ready. Report the results to leadership through me personally."

  "Yes, sir," Major Dymov stood, straightened up, and rendered a crisp military salute. His eyes burned with the cold excitement of a hunter who has cornered his prey.

  "Dismissed. Go with God."

  The door closed quietly with a soft click, cutting off the noise of the corridor. Silence reigned in the office once again, broken only by the rustle of secret papers and the muffled, strained noise of the old air conditioner trying to chase away the heavy, smoke-filled air of operational work. The night promised to be long.

  The Russian Federation. Suburbs of Tomsk. Cottage settlement "Zarechny." Target "House."

  22:40 local time.

  Wet snow lazily fell on the black helmets of the combined Special Forces group lying prone along the corrugated fence. The silence was broken only by heavy breathing into laryngophones and the distant barking of dogs disturbed by the unseen presence of strangers.

  "Cobalt, this is Center. Readiness—one minute. Confirming 'green' status. No civilians in the sector. Wait for the signal," Major Dymov commanded briefly from the mobile command van, watching drone monitors.

  The assault team leader, a captain with the callsign "Rock," checked the control band on his wrist, ensuring the time was synchronized to the second. He looked back at the sapper who had attached a shaped charge to the hinges of the massive iron gates, and raised a fist.

  Three... Two... One...

  BOOOOM!

  A directional explosion tore apart the silence of the night. The gates didn't open—they were simply blown inward along with part of the brickwork. A blinding flash lit up the courtyard for a moment, turning night into day.

  "ASSAULT! GO, GO!" Rock barked, his voice overriding the ringing in ears.

  The group surged forward into the gap, clouded by blueish explosive smoke.

  First, stomping heavily, went "Elephant"—a hulking fighter with a "Vant-VM" ballistic shield weighing twenty-five kilograms. He was the battering ram. Behind him, resting the barrels of their AK-105s on the shield-bearer's shoulder and side, moved a "pair" of assaulters.

  "Contact! Facade! First-floor windows!" the wingman screamed.

  The cultists were obviously waiting. Or they had been warned.

  The house, dark and quiet a second ago, snapped back with fire. The windows lit up with muzzle flashes. Bullets drummed on Elephant's armored shield with a dry, vicious crackle, striking sparks. Several bullets ricocheted, whistling past the group's ears.

  These were no simple bandits. The fire was dense and spread in a fan pattern. But amidst the sounds of gunshots, not only the crackle of Kalashnikovs could be heard, but also a strange, low-frequency humming.

  From the roof of a neighboring unfinished building, a shot from an SV-98 sniper rifle with a TGP-V silencer snapped like a whip crack. In one of the second-floor windows, where a figure flashed holding something glowing, the light went out, and a body slumped onto the sill.

  "Minaret-1, target down. Window sector two—clear. Attention, I see blue glow on the first floor! Possible magic usage!" the calm, even bored voice of the sniper in the earpieces contrasted with the hell below.

  "Copy! Team, tighten up sectors!" commanded Rock.

  The shield-bearer confidently pressed forward, covering the boys. Assaulters stitched the window frames with short, angry bursts ("double taps"), not letting the enemy peek out. Glass flew in sprays, brick dust rained on heads.

  They reached the corner of the house.

  "Assault team at starting point. Courtyard under control," reported the commander, changing a magazine.

  "Attention!" warned the second sniper. "Movement left, basement door!"

  The side door flew open. A silhouette in a hoodie appeared on the threshold. In his hands, he held not a rifle, but a crude wand.

  "Bitches! Die!" a screeching cry, distorted by fanaticism.

  A ball of fire flew toward the Special Forces. But Russian Spetsnaz was ready even for this.

  The shield-bearer, without stopping, took the magical hit on the ceramic of the shield. The "Vant" held. The fire spread over the armor plate and died out.

  At that same second, a fighter peeked out from behind the shield-bearer's back.

  "GRENADE!"

  The throw was perfect. An RGD-5 offensive grenade rolled right into the doorway, under the feet of the apprentice mage.

  BAM!

  The scream cut off. Dust and shreds of the door flew out of the opening.

  The group rolled into the house. The most dangerous phase began—room clearing. Narrow corridors, dust, poor visibility.

  Incoming fire from the depths of the corridor intensified. Tracers drew insane patterns in the gloom.

  "Shooter at twelve o'clock! Shield!"

  Elephant (callsign) took a burst to the chest and viewport without even swaying. The "Altyn" helmet dampened the blows, but the ringing in his head was terrible.

  "Work!"

  Over his shoulder, the support gunner's "Pecheneg" struck. Heavy 7.62 rounds stitched right through the flimsy interior partitions, along with those hiding behind them. Screams of pain mixed with cursing.

  But then the fighters encountered what Major Dymov feared.

  A burst from an assault rifle hit a figure deep in the hall—and flattened against air. Around the cultist, standing in the center of a circle drawn on the floor, a translucent, shimmering barrier appeared. Bullets bounced off it like peas.

  "Contact! Active magic! Bulletproof!" screamed an assaulter.

  The cultist raised his hands, and the air in the room began to thicken, pressing on temples. He was preparing something lethal.

  "Aside! Need 'Heavy'!" barked Rock, dragging the shield-bearer into cover behind a load-bearing wall. " 'Little Box', fetch! First-floor window, sector four! Take this henhouse apart!"

  On the street, from behind an armored *Tigr*, a BTR-82A rolled out. Its turret with an automatic 30mm 2A72 cannon turned with the hum of servos. The gunner saw the target through a thermal imager: a bright, pulsating spot of heat in the middle of a cold room. A magic shield could stop a bullet. But the kinetic energy of a 30mm high-explosive fragmentation shell—that's physics of a different order.

  "Shot!"

  The cannon barked a short burst of three shells.

  BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!

  The wall of the house, along with the window opening, was simply blown away. The shells flew inside and detonated on impact with the magic barrier. The shield couldn't withstand the overload. It ruptured along with its creator. The explosion scattered furniture, tore down the chandelier, and brought down part of the ceiling. The cultist was smeared across the far wall.

  The dust began to settle.

  "Clear! Check!"

  The fighters, stepping over debris, entered the hall. Tactical flashlight beams cut through the haze. Shell casings, shards of amulets, and the bodies of those who decided to play war with professionals lay on the floor.

  "First floor cleared. Elephant, block the stairs. The rest—inspection," the commander's voice on the radio was calm, as if this were a training exercise. "Where are these fucking sorcerers..."

  Machine gun crews outside fired a couple more bursts at the attic, for prophylaxis. Two minutes later, the shooting died down. The last shell casing clinked hollowly. The house was taken. Ahead was the basement, from which magic radiated. But the hardest part was behind: the myth of magic's invincibility against bullet and explosive had been dispelled once again.

  Time: 01:15 (two hours after the completion of the active assault phase).

  Operational video footage materials from the combined investigative group of the UFSB and the Investigative Committee of the Russian Federation.

  Archival file of Special Operation "Purgatory" No. 14. Classification: "Top Secret".

  [Record No. 1. Camera of an assault team operator, callsign "Tick". Location: Second floor, "Leader's" office.]

  The image jerks; the beam of a tactical flashlight picks out a wrecked room from the gloom. Bullet impacts, plaster dust, and shell casings are everywhere. An operative in shoe covers and gloves carefully sorts through items on the surviving desk.

  "Logging. Time 01:20," the muffled voice of the operator says off-screen. "A massive array of paper media discovered. Books, scrolls made of material resembling parchment or tanned skin. The text is handwritten."

  The camera focuses on an open book. The pages are riddled with dense, angular text.

  "Center, copy. Initiating primary recognition algorithm... Negative. The OCR program is returning an encoding error. This isn't Arabic, not cuneiform, and none of the known dialects of the New World. The symbols 'swim' when attempting to focus. Confirming interference with optics—the image is 'noisy'."

  The camera pans to the walls. The wallpaper is torn off. On the bare plaster, complex geometric shapes are drawn with a brown, dried substance (preliminary analysis: mixture of venous blood and crushed obsidian).

  "Symbology partially identified," comments a voice in the earpiece, belonging to an expert consultant from the old KGB archives. "Glyphs of the 'Beta' series. They overlap with the classifier of the USSR GRU Special Department No. 6, disbanded in 2026, under the section 'Occult practices of destructive cults'. Markers of summoning, containment of an entity, and... subjugation of will."

  [Record No. 2. Location: First floor bathroom.]

  The video sequence changes. A cramped room, finished with expensive tiling, resembles a slaughterhouse. The floor is completely flooded with a thick, dark cherry-colored liquid that has already begun to clot. A body lies in the shower stall.

  "Subject No. 1 (post-mortem). Male, Caucasian, approximate age cannot be determined." The operative's voice becomes drier, hiding disgust. "The body was subjected to brutal, systemic, and, judging by vital tissue reactions, multi-stage damage. The facial part of the skull is missing—sliced off. Hands are amputated, phalanges missing. An eight-pointed star is carved on the chest. Visual identification is impossible."

  [Record No. 3. Location: First floor hall. Bodies of neutralized militants.]

  The camera pans over corpses in camouflage lying in unnatural poses. A forensic expert in a protective suit lifts the arm of one of the dead, rolling up the sleeve of a tactical shirt.

  "Attention to the skin surface. Thermal burn? No, this is... a brand."

  On the pale skin of the forearm, runes burned from the inside, like a hot wire under the skin, are clearly visible. The lines form a spiral pattern going under the clothing.

  "Consultant from the Synthesis Academy reports: this symbology is the linear script of the Ravernal Empire. Our archaeologists recorded similar frescoes during excavations in Kar-Amik, layer 'minus five thousand years.' This is not an imitation. The ritual was real. They were trying to connect to some source."

  Evidence is laid out in the corner of the hall. The operative's voice lists dispassionately:

  "Seized: small arms—six units of AKMS, 7.62 caliber, serial numbers filed off. Thirty-six magazines loaded with army cartridges (armor-piercing incendiary). Three Makarov pistols. Three F-1 grenades on 'tripwires'. Two opened 'sealed tins' of 5.45 cartridges with index 57-N-231. Gear is homemade, but high quality."

  [Record No. 4. Location: Basement. "Zone Zero".]

  The sound of the operator's breathing inside the helmet becomes heavier, more intermittent. Descent down concrete stairs.

  The darkness below is so thick that the light of the tactical flashlight struggles to penetrate it. A heavy, sweetish smell rises toward the camera, seemingly even through the monitor screen—a mixture of decomposition, incense, and rotting meat.

  "Entering 'Zone Zero'. Ventilation disabled. Room temperature—plus ten degrees [Celsius]," the fighter wheezes. "Motherfucker..."

  The camera pans the room. This is not the basement of a residential building. This is a factory floor. A factory for processing humans.

  The walls are lined with soundproofing. Along them, on dirty mattresses and directly on the concrete floor, lie bodies. More precisely, what remains of them. Men, age 30-40. Signs of prolonged exhaustion.

  Some bodies are cut open as if in an anatomical theater—chests torn open, internal organs (heart, liver, kidneys) removed professionally, surgically precise. Others are dismembered, limbs arranged in geometrically regular figures.

  On the floor, in the center, a huge summoning circle is laid out with ash and ground bones. At key points of the circle, steel spikes are driven into the floor, upon which body parts are impaled. The background radiation, measured by the device in the dosimetrist's hand, beeps incessantly: "Magical activity—Level Red."

  "Preliminary conclusion of the identification group: victims are persons of no fixed abode, illegal labor migrants. 'Invisible people'. Fingerprints do not show up in the Federal Migration Service or Ministry of Internal Affairs databases. No social ties. The cultists used them as... consumables. As 'batteries' for their rituals."

  The operative approaches one of the bodies. The victim's face is frozen in a mask of extreme horror, mouth open in a silent scream, but the eye sockets are empty—burned out.

  The camera freezes on this grisly detail, capturing the final frame of the report.

  End of operational video recording.

  The Russian Federation. Moscow. Lubyanka Square.

  Central Office of the FSB of Russia.

  Deputy Director's Office. November 23, Year 0002, 05:15.

  Colonel General Iglov sat at a desk piled high with folders. A forgotten cigarette smoked in the ashtray. A secure conference call with the regions had just ended. The "Tomsk Incident" was not the only one—spikes in "paranormal" activity had been recorded in Novosibirsk, Yekaterinburg, and even the Moscow region. An enemy arriving with magic and fanaticism demanded an immediate and systemic response. Old methods didn't work against those who could incinerate a person with a glance.

  Iglov picked up a heavy fountain pen with a gold nib. He reread the text of the decree one more time. Every word here meant budgets, authority, and someone's life. But there was no choice.

  "Time to take the white gloves off," he said quietly and signed with a flourishing stroke.

  FEDERAL SECURITY SERVICE OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION

  (FSB OF RUSSIA)

  No. 778/k-OP

  "On the Creation of a Specialized Operational-Investigative Structure"

  Classification: TOP SECRET / OF SPECIAL IMPORTANCE

  Copy No. 1

  Based on Decree of the President of the Russian Federation No. 1452 dated 11/22/2029 "On Measures to Counter New Hybrid Threats" and based on the analysis of materials from Special Operation "Purgatory" (FSB Directorate for Tomsk Region, Case No. 14), testifying to the presence on RF territory of an organized, deeply clandestine underground utilizing methods of magi-technical influence:

  R:

  1. To establish within the structure of the Central Office of the FSB of Russia a temporary interdepartmental operational-analytical department with special powers under the code name "OPIR-9" (Department for Countering Atrocious Rituals and Paranormal Threats). Assign the department the status of a Directorate directly subordinate to the FSB Director.

  2. To approve the staffing table and recruitment procedure for OPIR-9:

  Recruitment to be prioritized from among active officers of the Service for Protection of the Constitutional System and the Fight against Terrorism (2nd Service) possessing combat experience.

  To recruit civilian specialists with advanced degrees on a permanent basis in the following profiles: history of ancient civilizations, neurolinguistics, theology and demonology, psychology of extreme states.

  To include in analytical groups former employees of specialized units of the USSR Ministry of Internal Affairs (MVD) and KGB specializing in the development of totalitarian destructive cults and sects of a satanic orientation (archival project "Setka").

  3. Special Contingent and Consultants:

  In cooperation with the United Synthesis Academy, develop a procedure for clearance and recruitment for operational work of carriers of local magi-culture (citizens of new territories of the RF: elves, beastmen, human mages) permanently residing in the territory of the RF.

  Candidates must undergo a mandatory polygraph test, loyalty magi-scanning, and psychophysiological examination under clearance form No. 1 (Top Secret). Assign them the status of "Operational Consultant-Specialist."

  4. Handling of Evidentiary Base:

  All material evidence in Case No. 14 (Special Operation "Purgatory") is to be recognized as objects of Class 1 biological and magical hazard.

  Ensure their sealed transport to the special storage facility of Directorate "K" for study.

  Attach full, unredacted objective control data to the case file: audio recordings of rituals, video fixation of the elimination of subjects, protocols of pathological-anatomical autopsies of altered bodies, and primary linguistic decryptions of "Ravernal texts."

  5. Deadlines: The Head of the Personnel Directorate is to submit a list of candidates for the position of Head of OPIR-9 within 24 hours. Duties are to be assumed immediately.

  Deputy Director of the FSB of Russia,

  Curator of Special Response Units and the Special Center,

  Colonel General

  /signature/ A.P. Iglov

  Iglov closed the folder, and the red "Secret" stamp on the cover seemed to wink at him with a bloody eye. In the next room, the secure communications device crackled. The machine had started working. Now they had a hammer to crush the bones of this new contagion. All that remained was to find the anvil.