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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.

_____

April 17, 2021/4018, Fourth Era

The Voro-12 team trudged along the trail, flanked by a vibrant field of wildflowers, their fragrance permeating the air and filling the nostrils of each member. Kamarov walked in the third row, just behind Vorosimorsk and Lise. He stifled a yawn, exhausted from the long trek with no destination in sight.

According to their itinerary, they should have reached a town by now, but over four hours had passed with no sign of it. Kamarov slapped his shoulder as if to silence its complaints under the weight of his heavy pack. His entire body was screaming from the relentless march, worse than any intensive training he'd endured, though he masked it with an upright posture and an impassive face.

But the fatigue was impossible to ignore. He stepped forward, grabbing Lise's shoulder. "When are we getting there?" he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow, his face drenched. Lise, equally weary but pressing on, explained, "This route is correct. We're probably just a bit further out. We need to be patient." She turned to Kamarov with a faint smile. "It's not always easy, but at least we're on the right path."

Kamarov frowned, unsure if Lise's words were meant to reassure or merely to keep the group's spirits up. With no other choice, he continued walking, though exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. "Unfortunately, nothing about this feels right," he muttered, his steps heavy and laborious.

Vorosimorsk, leading the way, didn't look back. He never seemed to tire, his gaze sharp and stern, as if anticipating something only he understood. Yet he remained silent, pressing forward.

"That's strange..." Lise began, her voice trailing off as if speaking to herself. "We should have arrived by now, but..." She paused, then continued, "Something might be wrong with the route."

A chill ran down Kamarov's spine. Lise's words sparked unease. Could they have been led astray? Why? A sense of foreboding crept into his mind, like a dark cloud obscuring the light.

"What should we do?" Kamarov asked, his eyes fixed on Vorosimorsk's steady stride.

Lise took a deep breath, suppressing her own anxiety. "We keep going, at least until we get new information. It's still manageable."

Petrov, trailing a short distance behind, overheard and hurried forward, his face etched with concern. "Should we stop to recheck our position? We still have the compass."

Lise paused, her thoughtful gaze lingering as if she wanted to say more. Her hesitation halted the group, causing those behind her to stop. Vorosimorsk turned, his expression puzzled. Lise studied the map for a long moment before turning to the group. "Can we change the route?"

"Is something wrong?" Vorosimorsk asked.

Lise bit her lip, trembling slightly with the weight of her next decision. She knew her teammates had their own duties, and she had no authority to interfere, but the vague nature of their mission gave her room to act on a personal impulse. Taking a deep breath, she pointed to a spot on the map, her voice quivering. "It's here... it's my home."

Her trembling intensified, fearing she was jeopardizing the mission. But Kamarov, resting a hand on her shoulder, cheerfully addressed Vorosimorsk. "What do you think, boss?"

Vorosimorsk stroked his chin, considering. Their current mission was essentially unchanged: exploration and reporting when possible. Given the anticipated scarcity of supplies, they were to rely on RIM PMC for logistics, coordinated by the military to ease reconnaissance teams' access to resources.

In this southern region, rest stops were sparse, but RIM's mercenaries were present, providing supplies until the government could establish a broader logistics network in Civilization Area 3. Visiting Lise's home wouldn't significantly disrupt their mission, so Vorosimorsk saw no issue.

Stepping closer to Lise, he asked calmly, "How far is it?"

Startled, Lise flipped the map, tracing her finger from their current position to her destination. After a moment, she met Vorosimorsk's piercing gaze. "About 15 kilometers southeast," she said softly but clearly. "If we pick up the pace, we could get there in three hours."

Kamarov raised an eyebrow, glancing at the map. "Three more hours? A full day of marching without rest..." He shrugged, his tone laced with sarcasm. "Sounds delightful, but not impossible."

"But why is that place important?" Vorosimorsk asked, his voice low and deliberate. "Is there a reason you need to go back?"

Lise bit her lip, her expression turning grave. "It's an old village. I... I grew up there. If possible, I'd like to check on the people there now, including my parents. It's been a long time."

Silence fell over the group, broken only by the rustling wind and soft footsteps. Finally, Vorosimorsk nodded. "Alright. We'll pass through. But if your parents aren't there, we move on immediately if we can."

"Understood, Commander!" Lise said, her eyes shining with gratitude.

Kamarov smirked, his tone mockingly dry. "Great, three more hours of torture. Fantastic." Despite his sarcasm, he stood tall, ready to continue.

The group adjusted their course, veering off the trail toward the southeast. The landscape shifted from sprawling flower fields to low hills dotted with trees and shrubs. The occasional chirp of forest birds mingled with the hum of insects, creating a serene yet eerie atmosphere.

...

Russian Federation, Moscow, The Kremlin

President Putin sat in his office, surrounded by advisors gathered around his desk, presenting reports for his review. Papers and pens lay scattered with deliberate chaos—he was tackling administrative reports tied to the economic recovery plan. The initial phase had gone smoothly, but challenges loomed, with no guarantee of sustained success.

Diplomacy, too, was in a state of flux. Having defeated the Papaldia Empire—a former superpower—Russia naturally became the center of global attention in this new world. Nations across all civilized areas sought to establish ties with Russia, from ambitious powers like the Holy Milishial Empire and the Mu Federation to smaller states recently freed from Papaldia's rule. This created unprecedented diplomatic pressure but also immense opportunities to assert Russia's international standing.

"Mr. President," an advisor broke the silence, "the ambassador from the Holy Milishial Empire has requested a high-level meeting. They wish to discuss trade agreements and technological cooperation. This is the first time they've approached us so openly."

"A good proposal, but technology cooperation is tricky," Putin said firmly. "For trade agreements, we can initiate negotiations as a foundation for future steps."

Another advisor, brimming with confidence, spoke up with a slight smile. "Mr. President, there's more." He placed a report on the desk. "The Mu Federation has proposed a joint venture for mining precious minerals—diamonds, gold, iron, uranium, and other metals, plus... three new minerals, unfamiliar to us."

"You mean mana stones?" Putin asked, scanning the report. "We've made no progress in researching them, correct? Any proposals involving mineral resources should be expedited."

He set the report down, his gaze serious yet curious. "What about the other two minerals?"

The advisor responded calmly, "Mithril and Orichalcum—products of mana stone refinement. A research team is already working on this and will deliver a report soon."

Putin frowned slightly, tapping the desk, his focus sharpening. "The Mu Federation... They want technology sharing? That's not straightforward. They likely see our expansion into Civilization Area 2. Fine, schedule their proposal for negotiations. But prioritize our nation's comprehensive development. Use technology as a bargaining chip they can't refuse."

"Anything else?"

"There is. The Vanguard Republic and the Ostrogoth Holy See also seek meetings. Vanguard wants to discuss issues with Project 231, while Ostrogoth aims to establish diplomatic relations for trade and cultural exchange."

Putin paused, his eyes glinting with calculation. These proposals carried strategic weight. A new world offered not just opportunities but also immense responsibilities in shaping Russia's global role.

"Regarding Vanguard," Putin began, his voice steady, "Project 231 is strategically critical. We must ensure long-term benefits. Send a high-level negotiation team, including military and economic experts, to clarify their intentions. We need tight control over the project's core elements."

He furrowed his brow, thoughtful at the mention of the Ostrogoth Holy See. It was the first time a superpower like them had initiated contact with Russia. Information on Ostrogoth was scarce, known only as a theocratic power rivaling Milishial, renowned for its divine civilization and vast magical prowess.

"The Ostrogoth Holy See..." Putin repeated, his tone pensive. "They're a theocratic state like Milishial, correct? Their proactive approach likely aims to gauge our strength and intentions. We must be cautious."

An advisor quickly added, "Mr. President, beyond diplomacy, they emphasize trade and cultural exchange. Their true motives remain unclear."

Putin nodded, his gaze sharp. "No complacency. Whether their goal is trade or diplomacy, that's not the full story. Instruct intelligence and research teams to compile detailed reports on Ostrogoth—its political structure, military strength, and economy. Prepare a high-level delegation of diplomatic, economic, and military experts for any negotiations. We won't enter talks unprepared."

Another advisor, responsible for cultural and diplomatic research, spoke up. "Compared to Milishial, Ostrogoth may possess extraordinary capabilities. They likely see Russia as an enigma, so this exchange could be a probe."

Putin gave a faint smile, his eyes sharp. "If they're probing, we'll do the same. Russia's position in this world shifts daily. They may see us as allies, partners, or even enemies, but we mustn't let sentimentality cost us opportunities. This is for our nation's future."

He scanned the room. "Anything else?"

The advisors nodded, scribbling notes. A brief silence followed before Putin's personal secretary entered, her face grave.

"Mr. President, an urgent situation from Papaldia's former satellite regions. Local armed groups have rebelled, seizing strategic areas. The Ministry of Defense requests your orders to deploy forces."

Putin's gaze snapped from the papers, his expression hardening. "Papaldia's chaotic legacy persists. Summon the Defense Minister immediately. Any rebellion must be quashed swiftly and decisively, but we can't let the situation escalate. It could give other nations reason to doubt Russia's regional dominance."

"If possible," he added, "instruct RIM PMC to send mercenaries to areas with reported Papaldian rebels. Frame it as a contract. We won't waste resources on peacekeeping; any conflict in the next two years threatens Russia's security. No mistakes."

The advisors nodded, understanding Putin's gravity. Any misstep affecting Russian citizens' quality of life would have severe consequences. The secretary, anxious about potential errors, strived for excellence. Yet, the hero who revived Russia from ruins faced challenges beyond their current capacity, rebuilding from scratch under immense pressure. She understood his occasional sharpness and held no resentment.

Taking a deep breath, she spoke firmly, delivering the final report. "Mr. President, one more matter," her voice trembled but was resolute. "Milishial has invited us and other non-native nations to an annual conference—the Fallen Conference—where nations discuss economics, politics, military, and research."

She glanced at the others, their surprise evident, even on Putin's face. Pressing forward, she continued, "Participants must include one permanent member and five non-permanent members per region, decided by the superpower. As newcomers with cultural barriers, they've postponed the event to year's end for preparation."

Putin's eyes sharpened. The Fallen Conference was too significant to overlook. It was a chance to assert Russia's global position but also a daunting challenge to demonstrate strength and unity.

"Well done," Putin said, his tone grave. "This conference could be a turning point. We must prepare thoroughly—politically, culturally, and militarily. We cannot afford to be underestimated."

He turned to his advisors, his gaze piercing. "I want a detailed plan for our participation. We need a strong delegation of top experts in economics, military, and culture. They must convincingly represent Russia's interests."

An advisor on international relations noted quickly, "We'll need to research participating nations and discussion topics thoroughly. We must identify allies, rivals, and potential partners."

"Exactly," Putin agreed. "Prepare for all scenarios. If security discussions arise, we must defend our interests. No one exploits our weaknesses."

"Regarding participants," another advisor interjected, "besides us, Central Asian nations and Vanguard, who decides for Civilization Area 3? With Papaldia's collapse, isn't that illogical?"

The secretary, caught off guard by this critical point, spoke softly but delivered a bombshell. "Mr. President, one final note. Milishial, the founder of the superpower system, has proposed Russia inherit Papaldia's superpower status and nominate additional nations."

The room fell silent, the air heavy. Putin's gaze locked onto the secretary, probing her intent. This wasn't just a title; it carried immense responsibility and power, but also risks.

"Are you certain of this information?" Putin asked, his voice low and serious. "This isn't a decision to rush."

"Yes, Mr. President," she replied, her voice steady despite a slight tremor. "Our embassy in Milishial confirmed this is an official proposal, to be announced at the Fallen Conference."

Putin nodded, weighing the implications. Accepting the superpower title could yield benefits but also greater responsibilities. Other nations would scrutinize Russia's every move, and any misstep could have grave consequences.

"We must discuss this carefully," he said, his sharp gaze sweeping the advisors. "I want each of your opinions on whether we should accept this title and how we'd prepare to safeguard our interests."

One advisor stood, confident. "Mr. President, accepting the superpower title would strengthen Russia's global standing, attracting investment, fostering stronger diplomatic ties, and enhancing our image. But we must prepare for the challenges."

"Indeed," another added. "We'll face fierce competition from powers like Milishial and Mu. They won't easily accept Russia's rise. We need a clear strategy to protect our interests."

Putin nodded, sensing consensus. "Then, we'll hold an urgent meeting with relevant departments to strategize. I want a detailed plan for the Fallen Conference and handling Milishial's proposal."

He paused, his expression graver. "But remember, we cannot let anyone exploit our weaknesses. Russia won't be a superpower in name only; we must prove it through action."

"And one more thing," he added. "Prepare for every scenario. If we accept the title, we must be ready for other nations' reactions. They may not accept this change easily."

The advisors nodded, understanding the task's complexity. Yet, a new resolve sparked within them. Russia stood at a critical juncture, and they would rise to the challenge to secure its place.

"Now, get to work," Putin commanded, his voice resolute. "We have no time to waste. Russia's future awaits."

In the tense but determined atmosphere, the advisors dispersed, each carrying a vital mission for their nation. They knew a historic moment approached, and they would not let it pass meaninglessly.

...

Off the Coast of Mamluk

The Shirhov Oceanographic Institute, one of Russia's premier marine research facilities, was as driven as other agencies to uncover the mysteries of this new world's ecosystems—both novel and familiar, astonishing scientists.

During an expedition in what locals called the former Humor continent, submerged 500 years ago in a catastrophic event deemed divine punishment by ancient inhabitants, researchers found valuable clues for dating underwater artifacts. Though scoffed at by the institute's skeptics, this lore aided their studies.

Aboard the private vessel Boreas, scientists and crew bustled with research equipment. They had just deployed an unmanned submersible into the deep waters near the Mamluk Kingdom, a strategic military base and hub of Russia's new trade routes. The chosen area was believed to hold ancient civilization relics.

Radar and sonar screens displayed faint images of peculiar underwater structures—remnants of a long-lost civilization. Dr. Vlasov, a leading marine archaeologist, stood by the screen, analyzing data from the submersible. "Look at these patterns... they seem man-made," he said, pointing to cylindrical structures and orderly stone blocks.

Engineer Kachov, heading the team, squinted. "Could this be an ancient city? These formations aren't natural."

As they debated, the submersible's operator navigated to another area. Stone blocks, arranged systematically, bore moss, algae, and cracks, hinting at their former grandeur. The submersible glided past broken formations, its weak light struggling to illuminate the path—a stone road emerged, urging the operator to follow. He maneuvered along it, capturing intricately carved walls via the submersible's camera.

At a fork, a wall caught his attention. Shining the light, he was dazzled by a reflective surface—possibly pure platinum, astonishingly pristine. But what shocked him more were the inscriptions: Russian? Under the dim light, Cyrillic characters emerged clearly, despite layers of algae and sediment.

Stunned, the operator's heart raced. These weren't ancient runes but familiar Russian words. "Doctor, you need to see this!" he shouted, unable to hide his panic.

The debating scientists fell silent, eyes fixed on the sweating operator. The screen's image left them speechless, throats tight with shock.

Dr. Vlasov stepped closer, reading aloud in disbelief. "Comrade Vladislav—1940. We were here with Comrade Eru and others of the 22nd Army Corps." He continued, voice trembling, "Comrade Kalinin—1943, Comrade Motoso—1942, Comrade Sergurov—1966, Comrade Vlomir—1987. And another from Vladislav."

Taking a deep breath, he read, "1989—Today is our last day here. The 22nd Army Corps fought here from the start, and we'll always cherish this world's beauty. We hope its people remember our contributions over these 49 years. I, Vladislav, will miss this place, but I have a homeland to return to. Farewell, Eru, until we meet again."

Silence enveloped the control room, broken only by heavy breathing and the distant sound of waves. The team was dumbfounded, as if uncovering an inexplicable piece of history. Cyrillic inscriptions, names, and dates spanning decades appeared under the sea, thousands of kilometers from any known Earth conflict.

Vlasov, stunned, reread the final line. The room remained silent, save for the sonar's steady beeps and equipment hum. Red Army soldiers, from 1940 to 1989, here?

A young researcher, pale, stammered, "How... how is this possible? Aren't these Soviet soldiers' names? How could they be here? And who's Eru?"

Kachov, voice shaking, broke the silence. "This... is impossible. The 22nd Army Corps? In the 1940s? If this isn't a hoax, we're facing an unprecedented historical mystery."

Vlasov rubbed his forehead, grappling with the implications. "Is this a prank or an unknown phenomenon?" His voice was hoarse, eyes glued to the screen.

Kachov swallowed hard, staring at the inscriptions. "If these are Red Army traces, how did they end up on another planet?" He looked to his team, finding only confusion and doubt.

Researcher Antonov quietly inputted the names into the system, cross-referencing historical records, but found no matches.

"We need to analyze that wall's composition," another scientist suggested. "If it's pure platinum, corrosion is unlikely. But who carved these? And why in Russian?"

The operator, still chilled, pressed forward, navigating the submersible through the dark ruins, its light sweeping over ancient reliefs, collapsed arches, and shattered statues.

Then, they saw something even more astonishing.

On a massive stone wall, a familiar symbol emerged—a red star with a hammer and sickle, partially obscured by moss but unmistakable. The control room froze.

Vlasov stepped back, voice trembling. "Impossible..."

Kachov, losing composure, cursed. "What the hell is this? A Soviet base?"

No one had answers. The group was gripped by profound unease. These weren't mere messages—they were traces of an unknown journey.

Vlasov shivered, staring at the screen, trying to process it. "The 22nd Army Corps... If I recall, they were encircled and destroyed during the 1941 Smolensk defense. How could they be here, on another planet, under the ocean?"

He took a deep breath, feeling science and history fail to explain this anomaly. The inscriptions filled him with doubt and dread.

Kachov muttered, "Impossible. The Soviet Union's gone. How could these soldiers be here? That star... Magic? An experiment?"

Engineer Andrei, anxious, grabbed the camera. "We need to record everything. This could be humanity's greatest discovery."

"Don't celebrate yet," Vlasov cautioned. "We don't know who left these or why they're tied to our past."

Silence fell, punctuated by the water's hum and equipment buzz. The screen's eerie glow cast a surreal atmosphere.

Suddenly, the submersible emitted a beep, signaling an environmental change. Vlasov checked the readings. "Stay alert," he said. "We've detected a hazardous area. Halt and check the equipment."

The submersible stopped before another stone wall, adorned with a massive, intricately carved door bearing unfamiliar, complex symbols—not Russian. The air grew heavy, as if an unanswered question loomed, threatening their journey.

Vlasov murmured, "We're on ground no one understands. If these soldiers were the 22nd Army Corps, fighting here, we might be facing an entirely new history... A parallel world?"

A strange light flickered behind the wall, suggesting a hidden energy source. The team froze, barely breathing. The equipment emitted odd sounds, as if something—or someone—was trying to communicate from another realm.

"We need to report this immediately," Kachov said gravely. "But carefully. Something's wrong here."

No one spoke. They knew they'd ventured too deep into a mystery from which there was no simple retreat. Relics of an unknown civilization, names from a distant past, and symbols of a bygone era raised a larger question—about an event, a war, or an existence beyond comprehension.

Could they uncover the truth? Or was this merely a fragment of a larger story humanity had yet to grasp?