Holy Mirishial Empire. Imperial Capital — Runepolis.

  Palace of Albion. Throne Room of Eternal Radiance.

  One week after the fall of Cartalpas.

  The air in the colossal hall, its vaults reaching into the heavens, was so electrified that the hair on the back of the necks of those present stood on end. Hundreds of supreme dignitaries, generals in full dress uniforms draped with aiguillettes, and magisters in robes embroidered with runes of power, froze in anticipation. Usually, decorum reigned here, but today the hum of whispers resembled the sound of surf before a storm. People exchanged glances; in their eyes one could read a mixture of fear, disbelief, and thirst for revenge. The news that the "Invincible Armada" had been destroyed, and Cartalpas—the second city of the Empire—lay in ruins, shook the foundations of their universe.

  Suddenly, the heavy strike of a gong, resonating in the very chest, silenced everyone.

  Massive doors of solid, magically stained Ygg wood, adorned with gold carving, opened soundlessly, moved by an invisible force.

  "His Sacred Majesty, Lord of the Central World, Keeper of the Covenants!" proclaimed the herald, and his voice, amplified by the acoustics of the hall, rolled like thunder.

  The entire hall, as one person, sank to their knees, bowing their heads. In the ensuing absolute, dead silence, only heavy, measured steps were heard. Walking across the mirrored floor of white obsidian was the one who had ruled this world longer than many nations have existed.

  Emperor Mirishial VIII.

  Despite his three thousand years, sustained by high alchemy and magic, he did not look decrepit. Tall, straight as a blade. His long, thick hair the color of molten platinum, woven into complex ritual braids, fell onto his shoulders.

  Pointed ears, the legacy of pure blood of the urban elves of antiquity, betrayed his origin, and in his pale blue eyes shone the inhuman, icy wisdom of centuries. His face, touched by noble wrinkles, today seemed carved from granite—not a single emotion, except cold, murderous resolve.

  On his shoulders lay the heavy mantle of the Sacred Emperors, embroidered with star charts, and his head was crowned not by a crown, but by a focusing diadem—a complex techno-magical device with a huge, pulsating aquamarine in the center of the forehead.

  The Emperor slowly ascended the dais to a podium made of solid crystal. He swept the hall with his gaze, and everyone he looked at felt the physical pressure of his aura.

  "Something... terrifying has happened. And absolutely, eternally unforgivable," he began. The Emperor's voice was quiet, but it filled the entire space, penetrating souls. In every intonation seethed the restrained anger of a volcano ready to erupt.

  "Our sons, defenders of the State, our ships, and, most terrifying of all, innocent citizens, the peaceful inhabitants of Cartalpas, were ruthlessly killed, burned, and crushed by iron. Guests of our home, delegations of sovereign powers who were under my personal protection, were subjected to a barbaric attack. This sin is washed away only with blood."

  The Emperor gripped the edge of the podium so hard that the crystal creaked pitifully.

  "Everyone present here knows the name of this evil. They call themselves the Empire of Gra-Valkas. And cursed be that distant world, that abyss from which these bloodthirsty mechanical demons crawled into our garden!"

  He paused, allowing the words to settle. Then his face softened slightly, although his eyes remained cold.

  "For three thousand years, our Empire has not known the grief of real war, the tears of loss, and the taste of ash on the lips. We forgot what fear is. But in this dark hour, we saw another light as well. As you know, other newcomers also arrived in our world, like a mirror opposite to these bastards! They are called the Russian Federation."

  A rustle swept through the hall. The mention of Russia evoked mixed feelings—from hope to envy.

  "On behalf of His Sacred Majesty and the entire Mirishial Empire, I officially thank them. At the moment when our fleet perished, and our services were paralyzed by shock, it was the Russians who extended a hand of help. Their rescuers, risking their lives, pulled our children from under the rubble, their doctors treated our wounded, their kitchen fed our destitute. They gave food and shelter to the suffering, demanding nothing in return. I and our Empire will never forget this lesson of honor!"

  The Emperor's gaze hardened again. He raised his hand and forcefully struck the crystal of the podium with his palm.

  BAM!

  The sound of the blow, amplified manifold by magic, sounded like a cannon shot.

  "Our Empire, for all three thousand years, acted as the guarantor of peace. We sought diplomatic solutions to problems in the First, Second, and Third civilized regions. We were a shield. But the shield is shattered! The time has come to draw the sword!" His voice thundered, breaking into a magical roar. "Mercy to mad dogs is a crime. From this day forth, with the full support of the Superpower Mu and all loyal nations of the First Region, we initiate the creation of the Grand United Fleet. We will assemble an armada that will eclipse the sun itself! We will destroy the enemy fleet wherever it hides. And after... we will land a million-strong invasion force on the continent of the Second Civilized World, seized by the enemy! We will drive these mechanical demons back to where they dared to crawl from! We will level their capital to the ground, stone by stone, until only dust remains of their civilization on the pages of history! Such is my will! And such is my decision!"

  Thunderous ovations and fanatical cries of "Glory to the Emperor!" remained above, cut off by dozens of meters of enchanted stone and lead. Here, in the holy of holies, in the real brain of the Empire, they did not penetrate.

  In a small hall sparingly lit by magic spheres, the walls of which were covered with detailed maps of both hemispheres, the air was cool and heavy.

  Emperor Mirishial VIII, having cast off the heavy ceremonial mantle and diadem, sank into an armchair. Outside the spotlights, he seemed not a formidable god, but an infinitely tired being carrying the weight of three thousand years of memory. He rubbed his temples with long, thin fingers.

  "Report, Arneus," he said quietly, without opening his eyes. "Only without the pathos I fed the crowd. I need dry facts and real numbers."

  Arneus Freeman, Director of the Imperial Intelligence Bureau, stood by the map table. His face was gray.

  "The fleet is mobilized, Your Majesty. The First, Second, and Third Strike Fleets are fully combat-ready, supplied, and deployed to the external roadsteads of the metropolis. But... the morale of the officer corps is undermined. They saw the recordings of the demise of the Zero Magic Fleet."

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  He moved several pieces on the map.

  "The Fourth and Fifth fleets suffered non-combat losses due to emergency redeployment—reactor failures, navigational accidents. They are understaffed with Class 'A' mages by almost 30 percent. The Sixth and Seventh exist only on paper and in training centers for now. These are reservists and recruits."

  Arneus paused, looking at the Emperor.

  "With your permission, I would recommend leaving the 6th and 7th here. If we strip the coast and throw everything into the attack... One breakthrough by high-speed Gra-Valkas raiders—and Runepolis will be bombed."

  The Emperor nodded slowly.

  "Approved. We cannot risk the Heart of the World. But for the Three Fleets—order them to move out to join with the forces of Mu. We need a 'fist,' not spread fingers."

  "Your Majesty," the Minister of Foreign Affairs Perclas nervously entered the conversation, fingering his cuff. "If we lose this battle... if the 'Grand Armada' is smashed just like the Zero Magic Fleet... That will be the end. The vassals will not forgive us a second weakness. The economy will collapse. We must be sure of victory."

  Shmill Pao, the Minister of Military Affairs supervising technical developments, intervened.

  "We analyzed the battle at Cartalpas, Minister. The lesson was brutal, but we learned it."

  He brought up schematics on the magic projector.

  "Water betrayed us. 'Aegis' type barriers are useless against the super-heavy kinetics of their shells. Therefore, experimental 'Bastion of Light' generators are being mounted on the flagships of the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd fleets in emergency order. It is a solid energy shield. It devours mana like a demon, but it cannot be pierced by a slug. We have strengthened the AA defense: the density of anti-aircraft fire on ships has been tripled by stripping obsolete vessels. And our 'Alpha-3s'... pilots have been given new instructions: do not engage in turning dogfights. Use magic remotely."

  The general took a deep breath.

  "And the main argument. With your personal sanction, Your Majesty, we have reactivated Project 'Legacy'. The newest aircraft carrier, refitted to carry and service the... 'Sky Fortress', has been included in the order of battle. We are raising the Pal Chimera into the air."

  The silence in the hall became tangible. "Pal Chimera". Ancient superweapon. A flying battleship, restored from the blueprints of the Ravernal Empire. It was a trump card saved for the most extreme case.

  "That monster devours as many resources as an average city consumes," noted Perclas.

  "But its firepower is capable of burning a squadron, and its shields will withstand even their 460-millimeter arguments. This is our 'Hammer of God'," Shmill Pao cut him off.

  The Emperor tapped his fingers on the table.

  "Good. We are throwing everything on the scales. Now about allies." He looked at the map of the Third Civilization. "What is heard from Parpaldia? Can we use their resources as cannon fodder?"

  "Parpaldia... is dead, Your Majesty," Arneus grimaced. "That usurper, Kaios... He is a smart man, too smart for a barbarian. He formally supports us, sends curses to Gra-Valkas, but his legions are busy 'restoring order'. He is rebuilding the Empire from ashes under the protectorate of Russia. They have no money, the fleet was destroyed by those same Russians. They will be of no more use than a corpse with a sword."

  The Emperor frowned at the mention of Russia. This word hung in the air like a sword of Damocles.

  "And Russia?" he asked the main question. "Those same 'others' whom I thanked from the podium today. We bought their loyalty by recognizing their Superpower status. Will they fight for us?"

  Shmill Pao exchanged glances with the intelligence chief. Uncertainty read in their eyes.

  "They have a whole squadron here. Missile cruisers our spies reported on... One salvo from them could turn the tide of the war. Will they help us destroy the Gra-Valkas fleet?"

  Arneus Freeman shook his head, and the cold insight of an experienced spy flashed in his eyes.

  "I fear, Your Majesty, you are asking the wrong question. The question is not whether they will help. The question is... will they allow any of us to win too quickly?"

  Arneus Freeman nervously drummed his fingers on the map where the red paint of Gra-Valkas occupation zones was spreading like gangrene.

  "We received agent intelligence from Ragna," he began quietly. "The Gra-Valkas Empire, despite officially declaring war on 'the entire civilized world,' including Russia, has not fired a single shot toward Russian ships or bases. There are persistent rumors, confirmed from two sources, that a tacit pact has been concluded between them. A secret non-aggression protocol."

  "Curse it..." one of the generals exhaled. "Did they divide spheres of influence?"

  "Worse. The Russians have taken the position of an observer in the Coliseum," Arneus stated grimly. "Their Foreign Ministry's latest dispatch oozes icy politeness. They gave us a transparent hint: they won't let anyone pull chestnuts out of the fire with their hands. Anyone. Help with healers, food, clothes for refugees, or infrastructure repair—please, as much as you want. Fight with their fleet and missiles for our interests—a categorical 'no'."

  General Shmill Pao frowned in bewilderment, examining reports from the Second Region.

  "But how can that be, Arneus? Reports show otherwise. Russian transports are entering the ports of Mu in a continuous stream. They are unloading weapons, some kind of modular barracks, heavy equipment, and their fighters. By the hundreds."

  "That is different, colleague," the Foreign Minister intervened, smiling bitterly. "This is that very 'Russian cunning' Eimor warned us about. They call it 'Private Military Companies.' On paper—this is not the army of the Russian Federation. These are freelance guards, corporation employees. Russian diplomats with stone faces claim that these professionals armed to the teeth arrive exclusively to protect Russian business and warehouses with goods on the territory of Mu."

  "What?.." Head of National Defense Agra Brinston almost choked on air. He stared at the Minister as if he were insane. "Merchants? Shopkeepers have their own, fully mechanized armies? This is impossible. This is a revolt in the bud! No state would allow privateers to possess such force!"

  To which Inspector General of the MFA Liage, who was also present at the council, merely shrugged simply, with the fatalism of a man who had seen Russians:

  "In their world—they allow it. Or pretend to. Understand, Agra, this is a convenient lie. Legally—Russia is clean. Factually—their elite battalions are already digging in at Le Brias and Maekal. And if Gra-Valkas tanks approach these 'warehouses'... Russian 'watchmen' will burn them without asking permission from their government."

  Silence hung. Those present realized a terrible thing: the old laws of honor and war no longer work. They were surrounded. On one side—mad maniacs with battleships, on the other—cynical merchants of death.

  Emperor Mirishial VIII had remained silent all this time, staring at the flickering mana-crystal in the center of the table. His face seemed a petrified mask of sorrow. For four thousand years he had kept this world, and now this world demanded the impossible from him.

  "Arneus..." he uttered hoarsely, barely audibly, without raising his head and resting his forehead against his clasped fingers, as if praying.

  A shadow in the corner of the hall stirred. Out of it stepped Arneus, head of Intelligence—a man feared even by ministers.

  "Yes, Your Sacred Majesty?" he asked worriedly, but with the readiness of a chained dog.

  The Emperor raised his eyes to him. There was no blue of the sky in them; there was the chilling, arctic blue of the abyss.

  "We are cornered. The fleet is smashed. Russia is playing its games. And the enemy is coming to our shores. We will not stop them with conventional methods..."

  Mirishial VIII paused, as if the words physically wounded his throat.

  "Prepare protocol 'Omega'. In case of a direct threat of invasion to our Empire, I will give consent to the reactivation and use of... the Parcaon."

  It became so quiet in the hall that the crackling of a candle wick could be heard.

  Parcaon. A name from nightmares. The forbidden legacy of Ravernal. Ancient magical weapon of mass destruction, the operating principle of which was based on the fission of mana and matter. It was so terrible and unstable that it was sealed by blood spells millennia ago.

  "I thought... I hoped we could hold this trump card until the very End of Times. Until the moment when the sorcerous bastards of the Ancient Empire and their demonic henchmen arrive in this world again..." The Emperor's voice trembled with hatred and fear of what he was about to do. "However, it seems this is not so. Gra-Valkas has left us no choice. We will use darkness against darkness."

  He clenched his hands forcefully, until his knuckles turned white.

  "But this decision is a curse. I do not want to bear it alone. I want, in the moment of need when I remove the seals, the entire Parliament, every aristocrat, every representative of the people to vote—'Yes'. So that this blood is on all of us. Do you understand me, Arneus? Ensure the correct... vote."

  This was an order for intimidation and blackmail of his own elite for the sake of saving the state.

  Arneus slowly, respectfully bowed his head, hiding the glint of understanding in his eyes.

  "Yes, Your Sacred Majesty. It will be done."