The Russians were out there, wielding their brutal weapons. Sounds like thunder roared across the sky and earth. Their destruction was unstoppable, even by magic. Everything seemed prepared for the masked warriors in green uniforms—like emerald shadows amidst the damp forests.

  An adventurer named Savaldor, a mage, came here only for the call for volunteer warriors and the generous periodic reward. That alone was enough to cover the exorbitant living costs in this capital.

  But everything turned into a nightmare—the screams of death, of the Russians. Their aircraft, faster than wyverns, dropped bombs that tore the earth into scorched craters, with flesh scattered all around.

  Savaldor had once encountered the Russians during an ambush when their iron machines rolled through a valley. It was his first battle, and he believed they were just barbarians, as the Papaldians proclaimed everywhere. He had believed it.

  The ambush began with ice spells to block their path. When the Russians dismounted, fluent Milishial—the common tongue—rang out, so clear it seemed they were Milishial themselves.

  Lead bullets, propelled as if by magic from fiery muzzles, fired ferociously. The enemy leaped from their iron machines, scrambling for cover. Savaldor only remembered that it ended in blood—so much blood on their side. The iron machines raised their steel tubes, aiming at their positions. Some fired slowly but caused massive explosions; others unleashed a barrage, shredding living bodies into minced flesh. Though they took down a few enemies, the cost was far too steep. He barely escaped as their strange machines swooped back and forth, sweeping the remnants with beams of light.

  Lost in recollection, someone shoved his shoulder, shouting, "Cast a spell to attack them!"

  He peered through the window—five iron machines were advancing. But one was different, its front much smaller. He couldn't guess what it was, only that they wouldn't stop until they succeeded.

  One machine drew closer. The Papaldian commander yelled at a mage, "Destroy them!" Reluctantly, the mage obeyed. A magic circle formed with an incantation at the window. A fireball launched, targeting the iron machine—a BMP-2 with soldiers aboard.

  The fireball streaked down like a divine spear from ancient cosmic entities, scorning this world. The BMP-2 erupted in flames; the soldiers aboard met their fate, the fire turning them into charred husks.

  From inside, the enemy's screams brought Savaldor relief. The seemingly invincible foe could be destroyed. He began to believe in a chance to survive.

  But soon, another roar echoed—not from the Russians, but from a Papaldian commander outside. A force—militia in simple attire and disciplined regular soldiers—charged like madmen. Yet the unusual iron machine, a BMPT, unleashed a 30mm barrage from its twin cannons, slaughtering without mercy.

  The roar was no longer a rallying cry but a farewell. Poor militia and elite soldiers alike turned into a chaotic pile of flesh in an instant. No spell could be cast, no magical shield could form in time.

  The BMPT pressed forward, the ground trembling under its 30mm salvos. Each bullet tore apart a piece of Papaldia's soul; each fallen body confirmed this was no longer a battle but a purge.

  Savaldor stood frozen, his heart pounding as if it would burst. He had fought many battles, but never had death felt so close—not from magic, but from the iron justice of another world.

  "They're demons..." a young mage muttered beside him, face pale, hands trembling, unable to grip his staff.

  The battle raged on, the initial "tat-tat" returning. Mi-35M helicopters hovered above, firing red beams from their bellies, raining fire that incinerated everything. Each bomb dropped cracked the earth, raising clouds of dust that swept away the bodies of soldiers and militia in the fury of advanced weaponry.

  Savaldor heard the groans of the wounded and the screams of those trying to flee. But in his eyes, everything blurred, leaving only a cold, lonely feeling, as if standing in a world without a future. Neither magic nor combat could stop the Russians' brutality.

  The BMPTs advanced, crushing all in their path. He saw a Papaldian tank shredded like paper by 30mm rounds. A massive explosion followed, debris flying, slicing through screaming bodies.

  Savaldor gripped his staff, hands slick with sweat. He once believed magic could protect him from any foe, that it was the ultimate power. But Russian weapons knew no fear, were unaffected, and could not be subdued.

  He looked at his comrades. Some had fled; others stood frozen, faces etched with panic. A few muttered spells, but their magic only produced faint sparks before the iron machines' wrath.

  Their deaths were cheap. Explosions shook the building. Shells from 2S19 Msta-S artillery plowed the area. The Russians kept advancing.

  He wanted to run but had nowhere to go. Outside were the northern demons; inside, only fear and despair.

  Savaldor felt his breath catch, his heart hammering as if it would shatter his body. The roar of Russian machines mingled with deafening blasts and desperate cries. The building shook under Msta-S barrages, dust falling like snow, coating his hair and shoulders. A young mage collapsed, eyes vacant, muttering an unfinished spell.

  "Get up!" a hoarse voice barked. The Papaldian commander, face red with rage and fear, shouted, "Cast spells, you useless lot! Or we all die!" He brandished his sword, but his panicked eyes betrayed his confidence.

  Savaldor clutched his staff, trying to focus, but his mind was haunted by the iron machines. He had seen magic tame dragons and crush barbarian hordes, but before these, it was meaningless. He muttered a spell; a faint magic circle appeared, but its light flickered and vanished.

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  A deafening explosion knocked him down. A wall collapsed, revealing the chaos outside. The BMPTs advanced, their 30mm cannons firing relentlessly, tearing everything apart. In the distance, Mi-35Ms circled, their red beams turning Papaldian soldiers into sparks before they crumbled to ash.

  He heard the commander's screams but couldn't make out the words. A shadow flashed past the window—an iron machine with motionless wings, not a wyvern. It dropped a bomb, and the ground shook as if struck by divine wrath. Black smoke rose, obscuring the sky, drowning out the moans of survivors.

  Savaldor crawled up, leaning against the remaining wall. He looked around—his comrades had either fled or lay dead, blood pooling with dust. A mage who once boasted of his power was now a headless corpse, his broken staff beside him.

  "They're not human..." he muttered, voice trembling. "They're machines of evil gods, summoned from a merciless world."

  But amid the fear, a spark ignited in Savaldor's mind. He recalled a forbidden ancient spell, mentioned in secret lessons by his master. It didn't attack but sowed chaos, disrupting everything, even machines. He wasn't sure it would work on Russian weapons, but it was his only chance.

  He stood, ignoring the debris falling from the ceiling. Raising his staff, he chanted. Ancient words flowed, each syllable draining his strength. A complex magic circle glowed green on the floor. His remaining comrades watched—some skeptical, others clinging to faint hope.

  The BMPT's roar grew closer. One appeared before the building, its cannons swiveling toward the window. Savaldor felt sweat drip but didn't stop. He poured his will into the spell, his mana rapidly depleting.

  The magic circle flared, a strange energy spreading. Space seemed to warp; the Russian cannons' blasts stuttered. The BMPT before him stalled, its engine screeching oddly. Russian soldiers aboard shouted technical jargon, frantically checking the machine.

  But Savaldor's joy was fleeting. A blast erupted from behind. His spell hadn't just affected the Russian machine—it disrupted Papaldia's protective wards. A 2S19 Msta-S shell pierced the wall, reducing a corner of the building to rubble. Nearby mages were torn apart, blood and flesh splattering.

  Savaldor fell, his staff slipping away. He looked up through a hole in the ceiling, where an Mi-35M circled like a predator. Its engine hummed a death song. He knew he had no chance left.

  "I was wrong..." he whispered faintly. "Magic... isn't enough..."

  A final explosion engulfed him in darkness, along with what remained of Papaldia. The Russian machines pressed on, embodiments of inescapable fate.

  Savaldor slumped down, despairing before the green-clad figures aiming weapons at him. A Russian soldier, suspicious, asked, "Are you the one who messed with our equipment?"

  He didn't know how to respond, unsure what his spell had done. Savaldor nodded instinctively. The soldier's eyes darkened, as if ready to execute him on the spot, but instead ordered, "Follow me." He didn't dare resist, trailing behind to a holding area with other prisoners.

  A Russian approached, scanned the prisoners, nodded, and left without a word.

  Savaldor huddled among the captives, back against a ruined wall, staring blankly at the distant dust and smoke. Gunfire and explosions had lessened, but the stench of blood and gunpowder lingered. The Russian machines had advanced deep into the capital, toward Velsai Palace—Papaldia's last symbol. The roar of engines and crunch of tracks on broken stone echoed like the earth groaning under their might.

  Nearby, a young militiaman, face smeared with blood and dust, muttered curses at the Russians: "Bastards... not human! Monsters from hell!" His voice was weak, as if he no longer believed his own words. Savaldor stayed silent, lips parched, unable to speak. He had no strength to argue, no faith to resist.

  He overheard two Russian officers nearby, speaking fluent Milishial, their tone clinical, like analyzing a chess game rather than a bloody battle.

  "This capital is done," one said, voice low and certain. He wore a green uniform, face angular under a cap. "Velsai Palace will fall in hours. Papaldia has no forces left. Their militia are rabble, their regulars broke when our artillery started."

  The other, tall, cleaning a pistol, nodded. "As expected. They relied on numbers and magic, no tactics. Using civilians as cannon fodder—idiotic. My report will note this. The world needs to know Papaldia brought this on themselves."

  "What about the mage?" the first asked, glancing at Savaldor. "The kid stalled Alpha team's BMPT for minutes. If artillery hadn't stepped in, we'd have had trouble."

  The tall officer shrugged, holstering his pistol. "Their magic is strange but not a threat. Our systems counter interference, even from mana. He's lucky to be alive, but we need to interrogate him. There may be other mages with that spell."

  Savaldor's heart raced. He hadn't realized his forbidden spell actually affected a Russian machine, if only briefly. But any pride was crushed by reality: he was a prisoner, his fate in the hands of those he once called "barbarians." He bowed his head, avoiding attention, but the militiaman's glare burned.

  "Did you hear?" the man hissed, voice bitter. "They're talking about you, mage. You did something, but now what? We lost, and you're sitting here like a dog waiting for a leash!"

  Savaldor clenched his fists but didn't reply. He knew the man was venting, but the words stung his pride. He had once been a proud mage, wielding magic revered across the world. But before Russian machines, he was a child with a stick facing a dragon.

  Heavy footsteps approached. A Russian soldier, face cold, eyes sharp as blades, appeared. He wore a strange ear device, likely for communication. Scanning the prisoners, he stopped at Savaldor.

  "Get up," he ordered, voice flat. "You're chosen for interrogation. Follow me."

  Savaldor's blood froze. He wanted to scream but stood, legs trembling, and followed. The prisoners watched—some with pity, others with scorn. The militiaman spat, muttering, "Mage, my ass... just a coward."

  He ignored it, focusing on the two officers ahead, still talking as another soldier ensured he didn't act. He caught their conversation.

  "The press won't have shit to smear us with," one said. "Papaldia used civilians as soldiers, ambushed from residential areas, then counterattacked. Perfect."

  "Like that guy in Kuwait, called a dictator, undemocratic by NATO in 2017," the other sneered. "What do they want from a semi-constitutional monarchy? We saved their king, then got condemned. They want democracy? Democracy where elections just pick capitalist puppets. Then some guy the U.S. doesn't like rises, gets called a dictator, and they demand humanitarian intervention. Pathetic."

  The other laughed, as if it were an old joke. "If we didn't step in, those people would be Western colonies forever. Papaldia went the same way—a failed copy, oppressing its people without even a moral mask. Now they're shocked by Russian guns and missiles, crying about human rights. Hilarious."

  Savaldor followed, not understanding their words. Before a row of T-72Bs, he swallowed hard as one said, "Interrogation will be quick if you cooperate. Good luck."

  He feared for his fate in Russian hands and wondered where this world was heading.

  ...

  After capturing Velsai Palace, the Russians relaxed as the battle ended. It exceeded their commander's expectations, with Papaldia's interim regime even deploying militia. Though it wasn't clear why so many joined, the war was over.

  Luka, hit by two arrows in the leg, was ready for an indefinite rest at home. He glanced at his ruined right leg with a pang of regret, then at the prisoners—mostly not regulars. It disgusted him, this empire.

  Suddenly, a shout echoed from afar. Someone was led away, looking terrified—likely someone important. Luka didn't care, thinking only of the aftermath: new nations, new conflicts, and money flowing into Russia's budget.

  He glanced at another corner, where five men talked. Among them was Vasha Donskoy—grumpy, always mocking others, but it didn't matter. Luka looked up as Mi-26 helicopters flew overhead, as if signaling Russia would wage war on the world.