Diary Entry: April 12, 2021/4018, Fourth Era

  Written by a Russian scientist at Outpost No. 3, Ael'na Region

  I sit here in the frigid hut, the dim light casting shadows on my trembling words. The wind howls through the rocky crevices outside, like whispers from a world not ours. This planet, with its crushing pressure and the eerie purple glow of mana stone, fills me with both fear and fascination. How many times have I longed to return to my old lab in Moscow, where everything was familiar, where the air didn't choke every breath? Yet here I remain, caught in the whirlwind of a truth too vast, too magnificent.

  The first days were a nightmare. I still recall the panicked eyes of my colleagues, their trembling hands clutching their heads as pain tore through their skulls. A pressure of 122.5 kPa—a dry number, but it felt like an invisible hand squeezing our microcirculation, swelling faces, turning eyes bloodshot as if they might burst. Once, I saw Ivan, a young engineer barely in his twenties, with blood streaming from his nose during a shift. He wiped it away quickly, forcing a grin: "Guess I'm not Soviet enough to handle this." I wanted to comfort him, but my throat tightened. How could I laugh when my own heart raced, jumping from 75 to 105 beats per minute, as if it wanted to break free of my chest and flee?

  Yet amid the chaos, I noticed something strange. Some people—descendants of veterans who fought in the Great Patriotic War—were unaffected. They moved, worked, even thrived. I watched Viktor, a technician with piercing eyes, navigate the equipment as if this planet was made for him. "Soviet Steel Syndrome," the military bioscientists called it, half-joking, half-serious. I wonder: does their blood hold a secret? A recessive mutation from those fiery years, or simply an iron will passed down through generations? Each time I think of it, pride and curiosity swell within me. They are living proof that, no matter how the world changes, Russians are not easily broken.

  Mana—the mysterious energy—haunts me most. It's not just particles or waves; it feels almost alive. I once stood for hours before a native fern, stunned to learn it had developed antibacterial compounds within months of encountering Earth's microbes. As if it understood. As if it fought. Yesterday, I held a piece of mana stone, feeling it hum softly in my hand, warm like a living pulse. When a grenade exploded nearby, it flared, emitting a shockwave that gripped my heart. I collapsed, not from the force, but from awe—as if I'd touched the planet's very soul. Mana stone doesn't just store energy; it amplifies, transforms, like a warning: "We could be your future, or your doom." I'm terrified, yet I can't stop yearning to know more.

  Mithril and Orichalcum keep me sleepless. Mithril, light as a feather, strong as steel, heals itself like a living thing. I once held a thin strip, subjecting it to crushing pressure, only to watch it bend and snap back, as if mocking me. Orichalcum is different, with the radiant beauty of burnished gold. When I touched a shield borrowed from the Mamluk Royalty, it felt like touching ancient memories. Testing it with an RPG-28 left me speechless: the shield dented, but the dummy behind it barely shifted, unscathed. Orichalcum doesn't just endure; it dissipates energy, as if telling me this planet knows how to defend itself. Each material is a puzzle, an invitation, and I, though exhausted, cannot turn away.

  Tonight, gazing at the alien sky, I see stars twinkling like watchful eyes. Is mana a gift or a trap? Does this planet have a will of its own, or is it just cosmic chance? I don't know. All I know is that every day here changes me—my cells, my thoughts. I fear losing the person I was, yet I long to become part of this world. My hands tremble as I write, not just from cold, but from feeling both insignificant and immense. We stand at a crossroads of history, and I, though merely a scientist, cannot stop dreaming of what lies ahead.

  ...

  Diary Entry: April 1, 2021/4018, Fourth Era

  Written by Anna Petrova, biologist at Outpost No. 1, No'lan Forest, Rowlia

  Today, I stood in the heart of No'lan Forest, where mana is so dense the air seems to pulse. The scent of damp earth, decaying leaves, and the strange perfume of native plants enveloped me, quickening my pulse. This is no sterile lab in Saint Petersburg, where everything is controlled. Here, every step is a dialogue with the planet—both welcoming and menacing. I feel small, yet brimming with excitement, like a child touching the universe's secrets for the first time.

  The early days in Rowlia were a prolonged nightmare. We scientists, escorted by Wagner mercenaries—silent, steely figures always ready for danger—thought ourselves strong. But stepping into No'lan's core, where mana signals spiked five times above normal, I felt fear. Not of beasts or darkness, but of something greater, as if the planet had eyes, watching my every move. I trembled at the thought that I might never understand it.

  The flora here is a marvel. I wept—truly—when I saw a native oak towering half again as tall as its kin, with fewer branches but nutrient-rich seeds, as if it knew how to survive this energy storm. The leaves of Arcanophyta Rowliana, a new species we discovered, shift from green to deep purple, pulsing with mana's rhythm. Touching them, I felt life surge beneath my fingers, but I flinched when inhaling their volatile compounds. For a moment, the forest spun, as if whispering secrets I wasn't ready to hear. I'm afraid, yet I can't stop loving its beauty.

  The animals confound me further. Boars with fur like armor, teeth sharp as knives, make me wonder what they've fought to become so fierce. Wolves are different—they don't just hunt; they think. I once saw one stand motionless on a hill, its gaze sharp as if sizing me up. Has mana granted them intelligence? Or is this planet teaching them to survive us, the intruders? Each thought weighs on me, as if I'm doing something wrong by stepping into their world.

  But what keeps me awake are the "mana beasts." The locals call them Trolls, Wargs, Wyverns—names from myth, yet they're real. Yesterday, a Wagner unit recounted clashing with a Troll in the valley. Over three meters tall, it smashed trees like toys, its eyes glowing red in the dark. They survived, but I saw fear in their eyes—something I'd never seen in seasoned soldiers. I wonder: has mana turned them into monsters, or merely amplified their true nature? And if so, what will it do to us?

  I write this in my hut, the oil lamp flickering. Outside, No'lan Forest breathes like a colossal creature. I miss nights back home, when the sky was full of stars and life was simple. Here, every moment is a challenge, every discovery a cut into old beliefs. Mana isn't just changing plants and animals—it's changing me. I feel it in my dreams, my heartbeat. I fear losing the old Anna, but I also yearn to become part of this world, even just a little. This planet is a song of life, and I, though trembling, want to sing along.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  ...

  Diary Entry: April 4, 2025

  Written by Dmitry Volkov, Wagner unit commander at Outpost No. 1, No'lan Forest, Rowlia

  I'm no scientist, not used to writing. But tonight, with the team asleep, I sit by the flickering fire, feeling the need to record something. No'lan Forest is unlike any battlefield I've known. Here, the enemy isn't just man or beast—it's the air itself, the cursed mana that makes my hair stand on end. I've been through Syria, Donbass, but nowhere has made me feel so small.

  Today, I led the team to escort Anna—the biologist with eyes that always shine, as if she sees something we don't. I respect her, but sometimes I want to shout, "You don't get it—this forest wants to swallow us!" Every step in No'lan is a gamble. Mana signals fluctuate, machines glitch, and sometimes I hear whispers in the wind—not hallucinations, I swear. It makes my heart pound, though I've long learned to hide fear.

  We collect samples for the scientists, facing things that shouldn't exist. Yesterday, a Warg—a massive wolf—burst from the shadows. It didn't growl or hesitate, just locked eyes with me before charging. I fired, the team fired, but it kept coming, as if mana made it immortal. When it fell, I saw its blood shimmer faintly purple. I stood frozen, gripping my rifle, my heart heavy. That beast wasn't just an animal—it was something more, a warning from this planet.

  Trolls are the worst. Last week, we lost two men in the northern valley. The creature towered like a tree, smashing boulders like toys, its eyes blazing like coals. I shouted orders, but its roar drowned out our gunfire. When it fell, I sank to my knees—not from exhaustion, but from feeling useless. We're trained to fight men, not nightmares. I looked at my remaining men, saw their eyes dim. They're scared, and so am I, though I'll never admit it.

  Anna talks of mana like it's a wonder, but to me, it's a curse. It makes trees grow faster, beasts stronger, and sometimes, I feel it creeping into my mind. I dream of No'lan, running endlessly without escape. I wake drenched in sweat, hand clutching my knife. I don't know how long I can last, but I can't abandon my team. They need me, and maybe, deep down, I need this forest—to prove I'm stronger than it.

  Sitting here, hearing the forest breathe outside, I think of Rostov, when life was simple. But now, I'm part of No'lan, whether I like it or not. Mana is changing everything—trees, beasts, and me. I fear the day I look in the mirror and don't recognize myself. Until then, I'll hold my rifle, keep moving, because it's all I know how to do.

  ...

  Diary Entry: April 10, 2021/4018, Fourth Era

  Written by Sofia Kuznetsova, anthropologist at Outpost No. 2, Civilization Zone No. 3

  I sit in my small room at Outpost No. 2, the oil lamp flickering on the page. Outside, the sea breeze from the Lirah Archipelago carries the scent of salt and the sound of waves—a symphony of an alien yet vibrant world. Today, I returned from a Lirah wave-calling ceremony. They sang, their voices rising and falling with the ocean, and I, though a scientist, couldn't stop trembling with emotion. This planet isn't just mana or minerals—it's stories, souls, and I'm trying to listen.

  My work is to understand the cultures here, from uncivilized tribes to Papaldia's oppressed colonies. Each day is a battle between reason and emotion. I read about Karmazia's Divine Kingdom, where youths burn blood to mark adulthood, and wonder: what strength do they find in those flames? I think of Sovarek's Maritime Union, where women sing laws in songs, and my heart warms imagining elders passing memories to the next generation. But then I read about Tiavia, where people keep resistance alive through secret plays, and I weep. Papaldia stole their language, yet they tell stories with eyes and dance. I ask myself, could I be as brave?

  Yesterday, I met a girl from Khatsun. She spoke of moonlit meditation rituals, praying for their fields' protection. Her voice shook when mentioning Papaldia, the days they were banned from their traditions. I held her hand, saying nothing, hoping she felt some comfort. Russia is helping—bringing medicine, equipment—but I know what they need most is to be themselves. I feel powerless, despite a lifetime studying humanity. This planet teaches me that culture isn't just books—it's a heartbeat, a breath, the blood flowing through generations.

  Sometimes, I'm afraid. Afraid that we, with our science and strength, might harm what's most precious. Afraid I'll forget the Sofia who sat in Novosibirsk's libraries, dreaming of distant cultures. But then, seeing a Lirah child smile as I sing their folk tune, I know I can't stop. I want to understand them, protect them, maybe learn from them how to love this world. Each story I record is a piece of this planet, and I, though small, want to preserve them.

  ...

  Diary Entry: April 13, 2021/4018, Fourth Era

  Written by Anatova Mikhailova, Outpost No. 2

  I sit before a pile of reports, my fingers tracing dense lines, but my mind wanders elsewhere. The dim office light reminds me of long Moscow nights, when I was a young woman full of ambition, believing science could unravel every mystery. Now, at Outpost No. 2, I'm no longer certain. This planet isn't just a problem—it's a song, a challenge, sometimes a warning.

  Each report from the outposts cuts into my old beliefs. Mana stone in Ael'na, mutated plants in No'lan, vibrant cultures in Lirah—all pieces of a puzzle too vast, too complex. I smile reading about "Soviet Steel," picturing young soldiers joking to mask fear. I shudder thinking of Trolls and Wargs, creatures from nightmares, and wonder if we're trespassing in their domain. But above all, my heart aches for Tiavia, Khatsun—people stripped of everything, yet holding a spark in their souls.

  I know this work isn't just science. It's responsibility. Each discovery could shape Russia's fate, this planet's, and I feel that weight on my shoulders. Today, touching a mana stone experiment report, my heart raced. It's not just energy—it's the future, or disaster. I want to believe we'll use it wisely, but deep down, I fear ambition might cloud reason, as it has for so many civilizations.

  I've called an urgent meeting. I want to see my colleagues' eyes—Anna, Sofia, the Wagner soldiers—to remind myself we're not alone. I want to hear them speak, whether about mana or Lirah's songs, because that's how we stay grounded. I'm tired, but I can't stop. This planet is calling, and I, though afraid, want to answer. I don't know who I'll become, but I hope, looking back, I can say I did what was right.

  ...

  Diary Entry: April 6, 2021/4018, Fourth Era

  Written by Kirill Ivanov, military engineer at Outpost No. 2, Tiavia Colony

  I'm not good with words, but tonight, I need to ease this weight in my chest. Tiavia is a strange place. By day, I fix machines, train guerrillas to use Russian rifles, but at night, when everyone sleeps, I hear distant songs. Sad Tiavian melodies about days of freedom. I don't know the words, but they remind me of my mother, of Volgograd nights when she sang me to sleep. My eyes sting, though I tell myself a soldier can't be weak.

  Today, I met a boy, maybe ten, in the guerrilla unit. He held a rifle too big for his hands, but his eyes were sharp as knives. He said Papaldia killed his father for speaking Tiavian. I taught him to aim, but inside, I wanted to hug him and say it'll be okay. I know it won't. Papaldia took too much, and we, with modern weapons, can't restore what's lost. I feel helpless, though I've been trained my whole life to fix things.

  Mana here isn't as strong as in No'lan, but I feel it. It seeps into machines, making them glitch, as if the planet doesn't want us rushing. I once saw an old Tiavian gun, etched with strange runes, firing stronger than any musket. I'm curious, but scared. If mana can do that, what will it do to people? To me? I've seen Russian soldiers change—they talk less, their eyes distant, as if hearing something I don't.

  I don't know if I belong here or if I'm just passing through. I want to help Tiavia, not just for duty, but because they remind me of us—Russians who fought to stay ourselves. But each night, when the songs rise, I wonder: are we freeing them, or replacing one empire with another? I have no answers. I only know that tomorrow, I'll pick up my wrench, teach a boy to shoot, and try not to let fear consume me.