Màu nền Màu tối Mặc định Xám nhạt Xanh nhạt Xanh đậm Vàng nhạt Màu sepia Vàng đậm Vàng ố

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From now on, there will be additional chapters for the story. Chapters numbered with decimals like 1.1, 1.2, etc., are extensions of the main chapter (mainly because the content was too long and had to be split). Meanwhile, chapters labeled with letters, like this one, are supplementary chapters that further develop the lore of the story.

If you notice anything that hasn't been explained properly, feel free to leave a comment so I can address it.

- Horus -

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Note: This work is entirely fictional and belongs to the Alternate History genre, utilizing historical characters and events in a fictional context. All content is a product of imagination and does not reflect reality or political or military stance.

The story contains sensitive elements such as violence, large-scale warfare, tense political conflicts, and alternative historical depictions. It is not suitable for readers under 16 years of age or those who may be psychologically affected.

Continuing to read implies acceptance of all controversial elements within the work.

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The clanking of T-72B3 tanks rolling over the frozen dirt road, followed by a convoy of other armored vehicles escorted by Mi-35M helicopters along the forest edge in the area locally known as Abra'vo. The roar of engines, the howl of the wind, and the clashing of metal all blended together to create a symphony of war, echoing across the devastated land.

This was an underdeveloped region where villages—if they could even be called that—were nothing more than small clusters of thatched-roof houses scattered across desolate fields. The stilt houses had been completely consumed by fire, leaving only faint wisps of smoke rising like heavy souls. The roads here were little more than muddy trails, frozen solid in the harsh winter. The biting wind cut through the skin, carrying the stench of ash and charred remains, but the cold was nothing compared to the icy despair the people here endured.

The traces of brutality were evident on every inch of ground the convoy passed. Electric poles and roadside posts, where the stiffened bodies of locals—both men and women—had once hung, executed mercilessly without justification. Further on, a pile of smoldering ash still burned faintly, scattered with the bones of those who had once lived in the nearby small village. The smoke rising from the burned houses was not just evidence of destruction but also a haunting reminder of the tragedy of war.

Faced with these horrifying scenes, the Russian soldiers in their black armor remained silent, but their eyes betrayed their fury. Among the group, some soldiers bowed their heads, gripping their weapons tightly, while others sighed, seemingly tormented by the atrocities they witnessed. The air grew heavy, as if burdened by the weight of an unerasable violent past.

From a BMP-3, a Russian soldier stepped down, removed his protective goggles, and bent over to examine the body of an elderly man. The man's eyes were wide open, and his gray, frostbitten hands still clung to the broken wooden beam of what had once been a home. The soldier gritted his teeth, his eyes filled with rage, intensifying the already tense atmosphere.

"Those Papaldian bastards..." a hoarse voice growled from behind, belonging to Lieutenant Mokashev, who, though familiar with such scenes, could not hide the hatred in his words. The sound of his voice was like a curse, sending a shiver through the air.

Suddenly, a faint groan came from a pile of rubble. Immediately, several soldiers rushed over, pushing the debris aside. Beneath the ashes, a fragile figure emerged: a girl no older than ten, shivering, her body emaciated, her large eyes brimming with tears as she looked at the soldiers with a mix of fear and despair. Her eyes seemed to hold the tragedy of an entire nation.

Mokashev knelt down, gently placing a hand on the girl's head, trying to offer some warmth in the cold of war. "Are you the only survivor?" His voice was firm but laced with concern, as if searching for a glimmer of hope in the darkness.

The girl couldn't speak, only nodding slightly, tears streaming down her dirty cheeks, reflecting the brutality of the war. The soldier beside her clenched his fist, his knuckles white from the cold, as if in that moment, the world was consumed by their fury.

In the distance, a column of smoke rose from another village where Papaldian soldiers, their gunfire still echoing, continued their rampage. The sound of helicopter rotors mingled with the crack of gunfire, creating a chaotic symphony of war that haunted every soul.

Mokashev stood up, his eyes cold as ice, reflecting death and unwavering determination. He raised his hand, and the tank convoy suddenly accelerated, the roar of their engines like a vengeful oath of an entire nation. The Russian soldiers needed no time to debate; they understood that in war, hesitation could mean death.

"No prisoners." The order was brief but carried the full weight of violence and the nightmare of war. After those words, the faces of the soldiers showed not only anger but also the anguish of irreparable loss. They knew that only the brutality of the enemy demanded such unyielding retribution.

Amid the rubble, the smoke, and the storm of war, the hearts of the Russian soldiers, though cold, were filled with complex emotions—haunting, pain, and a desperate hope for justice in a violent world.

...

"Destroy them!"

In the village of Oserg, a Papaldian battalion was resisting a long-standing force that had always been a thorn in the side of the Velsai government. The forces the Papaldian army was fighting were the resistance fighters who had existed for years, clinging to the hope of victory, though it all seemed futile.

This resistance group belonged to the Berid Restoration Society, a former nation that had once existed on the map but was erased decades ago during Papaldia's second great expansion. Fueled by hatred and the will to restore their nation, this group had survived until now and continued to fight.

But that didn't mean they were capable.

Berid's equipment was deemed inferior, making it nearly impossible to defeat Papaldia in a conventional battle. This made guerrilla tactics their only effective means of resisting Papaldia's destruction.

But no matter what, Papaldia simply had a far superior military system.

"Destroy these savages!" a Papaldian officer shouted as he directed his battalion. He was tasked with retreating after the Russian army had decimated their main forces with artillery.

Unfortunately, during their retreat, they encountered a group of Berid resistance fighters. With supplies scarce in the winter, he decided to attack them to seize their resources, and along the way, they also looted villages—all belonging to former nations deemed unworthy of the empire's prosperity.

Magic bullets were fired, swords clashed, creating a bloody spectacle.

Though the Berid resistance matched their enemy in numbers, Papaldia's professionalism made it easy to dismantle their attacks.

The leader of this group, Mhasa, frantically ordered counterattacks against the brutality of the Papaldian soldiers. He knew what these monsters in the guise of civilization had done during their pursuit, and with all his fury, he fired precise arrows, killing Papaldian soldiers.

But the overwhelming quality of Papaldia's forces quickly turned the battle into a disaster as each bayonet was stained with the blood of his comrades. He could only watch as they fell, powerless to stop it.

In a moment of distraction, he was shot in the shoulder. The searing pain forced him to the ground as his men were slaughtered one by one.

The Papaldian commander stepped forward, gripping his sword as he ordered the massacre to continue. He walked over, stepping on Mhasa's body, declaring loudly:

"You will never be capable of threatening the empire's existence!"

"You bastard!" Mhasa gritted his teeth, unable to move due to the bullet and the commander's foot on him.

The commander sneered, mocking Mhasa. "A beastman like you has no leadership skills. All of you are just savages."

But before he could say more, an explosion erupted behind him. The ground shook, dust billowed, and the Papaldian soldiers panicked, turning around. One of their war chariots had been torn apart by a powerful shell, reduced to a pile of burning scrap.

From afar, the roar of engines shattered the cold air. A T-72B2 had just claimed its first target. The 125mm smoothbore gun still smoked, while around it, Russian soldiers quickly deployed their attack formation.

There was no chance. The Mi-35 swooped in like a phantom. S-8 rockets rained down on the Papaldian formation below. The earth-shattering explosions halted the Berid resistance fighters who were being slaughtered.

They had never seen anything like it—a dragonfly-like beast flying above them, unleashing devilish bullets that tore through the army below.

The Russian army had arrived, their tanks and armored vehicles charging forward.

The 125mm smoothbore guns fired HE shells, the NSV machine guns unleashed 12.7mm rounds.

The Papaldian soldiers couldn't escape their fate. Death came one by one, dragging them straight to hell—a place that would become their final destination with no salvation.

The bodies of Papaldian soldiers lay scattered on the snowy ground, their blood mingling with the white, their limbs strewn across the snow.

Humans, demi-humans, and beastmen alike stared at the vehicles they had never seen in their lives. They had lived in hiding for too long to realize how the world had changed.

The tanks stopped in the center of the village. The simple, humble houses were now adorned with the brutal, expensive machinery of war.

Mhasa struggled to sit up, his trembling hand clutching the cold, blood-soaked ground. His eyes widened at the sight before him—the once-arrogant Papaldian warriors now lay dead, their meticulously crafted green uniforms marred by burn marks.

The Russian soldiers stepped out of their vehicles, inspecting the area. The soldiers in white blended with the snowy landscape.

Lieutenant Mokashev jumped down from the T-72B2, glancing around. Different species stood with weapons in hand—mostly melee weapons.

He walked up to Mhasa, his cold yet sympathetic eyes looking down at the beastman on the ground. Mokashev reached out to help Mhasa up.

Mhasa warily eyed the man in white, with black armor on his chest. The AK-74 in his other hand, with a 6x3 bayonet, made Mhasa feel uneasy about these newcomers.

"Who... are you?" Mhasa asked, his voice full of caution.

Lieutenant Mokashev didn't answer immediately. He looked at the other Russian soldiers carrying out their tasks, then calmly replied.

"The nightmare of Papaldia," Mokashev continued. "We are the blazing sun that will shine over this land. We are the Russian Federation."

"The Russian Federation?" Mhasa questioned, puzzled as he had never heard of such a nation in the region. But looking at their equipment, he thought they might be from the second civilized zone.

He, accustomed to speaking the common language, instinctively spoke in it. Mhasa then asked in his own language. "Stranava nom..."

"Sorry, what?" Mokashev tilted his head, not understanding the beastman's words. Mhasa stood up, looking directly into the Russian's eyes.

"We'll talk."

With that, he walked away, clearly wanting Mokashev to follow for a discussion.

Mokashev cautiously followed, the eyes of the villagers and the Berid Restoration Society members watching the Russians with a visual effect—their uniforms made them appear unusually large.

But they were surprised by the Russian army's actions. A medical team approached the wounded resistance fighters, treating them. Villagers caught in the war also received aid.

The bodies of Papaldian soldiers were mocked by the Russian soldiers.

A group of village youths watched as the Russian soldiers trampled the corpses with jokes and vulgarities, feeling a complex mix of emotions.

They couldn't deny Papaldia's brutality but also struggled to accept the crudeness of these newcomers. Yet, since they were receiving help, they could do nothing but feel confused by the contradictory actions.

Mokashev returned with Mhasa, his expression pensive. The soldiers who had been joking moments ago immediately became serious.

"Comrades, from today, we officially have a new ally, and in the future, we will have more!" Mokashev shouted, announcing the cooperation with the Berid Restoration Society.

Whispers spread through the crowd. Some Berid members looked at each other, unsure whether to be happy or worried. They couldn't deny that Russia had saved them from Papaldia's claws, but the behavior of the Russian soldiers made them both grateful and wary.

Mhasa stepped forward, his sharp eyes scanning the Russian soldiers before him. He seemed to be weighing something, then slowly spoke:

"We are grateful for your help... but I hope you will also respect us and those who have fallen."

Mokashev narrowed his eyes, assessing Mhasa's attitude. He understood that in war, respect was sometimes a luxury, but if they wanted long-term cooperation, these small conflicts couldn't be ignored. He nodded, signaling his soldiers:

"Stop it. There's no reason to mock the dead, even if they're enemies."

The Russian soldiers hesitated for a moment, then silently stepped away from the corpses. Some of the younger soldiers smirked, but no one dared to object.

Mhasa said nothing more, but his gaze softened slightly. He knew well that these Russians weren't savior angels; they were warriors, and warriors carried both compassion and cruelty. But at least, they were willing to listen.

"Alright," Mhasa said. "Let's discuss cooperation."

...

The atmosphere in the command tent was as heavy as the gray sky outside. General Sergey Vladimirovich Surovikin sat motionless behind the command desk, his cold eyes scanning the reports spread before him. Outside, the roar of Su-34s and Su-25s filled the sky, flying over the burning battlefields. In the distance, artillery continued to rain precise shells, crushing the last clusters of Papaldian defenses.

Everything was going according to plan. But not fast enough.

Surovikin set the report down, his gaze thoughtful. The Papaldian frontlines had nearly collapsed, but the operation hadn't achieved optimal speed. This displeased him.

Though most Papaldian forces had either fled or been destroyed, some scattered units still resisted. Notably, few of these were true Papaldians. They were mercenaries, reserves, or self-organized units, and thus, not as foolish as the regular Papaldian army.

They had changed tactics.

No longer forming large formations for meaningless charges, they now ambushed, conducted guerrilla warfare, and used magic to harass supply lines, trying to slow the Russian advance.

However, the rest of the Papaldian forces—those truly of the fallen empire's blood—remained arrogantly foolish. They believed their old tactics could turn the tide, even as they were being crushed bit by bit.

Surovikin smirked. Useless fools.

He opened another report—artillery reserves were dwindling, resupply slower than expected. Partly because the army was advancing too quickly, stretching supply lines. But the rest?

Bureaucracy. Inefficiency. Possibly corruption.

Surovikin wouldn't tolerate it.

No one was allowed to slow the war. No one was allowed to weaken the Russian army for personal gain.

He tossed the report onto the table, his voice filled with killing intent:

"Send a message to Moscow. If supply losses continue, I'll investigate on the spot. Anyone involved—hang them."

The command tent fell silent. A few officers shuddered, but no one dared to object.

They all understood Surovikin wasn't joking.

Footsteps echoed. Major General Anatoly Voronin entered, holding an urgent report.

"General, we've established contact with a rebel group opposing the Papaldian government—the Berid Restoration Society."

Surovikin looked up, his eyes emotionless.

"What do they want?"

"They've proposed cooperation. In exchange for weapons and military aid, they'll provide intelligence and help us establish bases in their controlled territory."

Surovikin frowned. A resistance group in Papaldia?

A bunch of failures clinging to Russia?

"Are they capable or just a rabble?"

Voronin answered immediately, his voice firm:

"Not as strong as the Papaldian army, but they have a wide information network. They've survived years of resistance—proving they're not useless."

"Good." But for Surovikin, military strength wasn't the most important factor. What mattered more was their willingness to submit.

"Are they ready to be loyal to Russia?"

Voronin nodded. "If they want support, they have no other choice."

A cold smile flickered across Surovikin's face. "Exactly."

Russia wasn't a charity. If they cooperated, they had to serve Russia's strategic interests. No exceptions.

He coldly ordered:

"Send a delegation. Assess their actual value. If they're worth it, use them. If not—discard them."

"Understood, General!" Voronin immediately left to carry out the order.

Surovikin stood up, stepping out of the command tent. Before him, armored columns advanced, Russian soldiers marching into the ruined city. In the distance, columns of smoke rose from the rubble—the remnants of a once-arrogant empire.

He took a deep breath. The air of war. Nothing made him feel more alive.

War had no room for pity.

Russia didn't need useless allies. It didn't need false humanity.

Only victory.

Surovikin looked up at the cloudy sky, his voice cold, each word carrying the weight of death:

"History only remembers the victors."

"Russia will rewrite this world."