Synopsis: Immediately after the failure of the Conference of the Leaders of the 11 Countries, the Holy Mirishial Empire decides to punish the impudent "upstarts" from Gra-Valkas by sending its pride, the legendary Zero Magic Fleet, into battle. The Imperial admirals are confident of a quick victory, but in the waters of the Magdol archipelago, the arrogance of the Ancients is shattered by the steel wall of industrial warfare. Russian intelligence is watching in real time as the best magic in the world is powerless against aircraft carriers, radars, and battleship main guns, turning the battle into a one-sided execution.

  The Holy Mirishial Empire, the port city of Cartalpas. The Grand Council Hall.

  The fifth day of the "Conference of Leaders of 11 Nations."

  In the gigantic hall, beneath vaults adorned with frescoes depicting a thousand years of history, a silence hung so heavy it made one's ears ring. The air seemed to turn dense and viscous. The fifth day of the assembly, the most crucial for the balance of power, was approaching its climax.

  On the agenda stood a question that, even a month ago, would have seemed like heresy: "On the recognition of the Russian Federation as the Fourth Superpower and its inclusion in the Council of Leaders as an equal member."

  Alexey Petrov, sitting at the head of the Russian delegation (while Minister Vorontsov conducted closed consultations at the embassy), maintained a facade of absolute composure. But inside, he felt a chill. This was the moment of truth. It was not just a title. It was a mandate for influence throughout this entire world.

  "Proceed to the vote," rumbled the Supreme Herald, striking the floor with his golden staff.

  The voting was not secret. In this world, the cowardice of anonymity was not welcomed. State representatives were required to insert their personal mana-crystals into slots on the round table, coloring them either white (consent) or black (rejection).

  One by one, the crystals began to flash with a pure, white light.

  1. The Holy Mirishial Empire: Ambassador Philliam did so slowly, with a stone-cold expression. For them, it was a bitter pill to swallow—to recognize someone else as an equal. But the fear of Gra-Valkas and the specter of Ravernal left them no choice.

  2. The Superpower Mu: Lassan and Mairus activated the crystal instantly. For them, this was the cementing of their primary strategic alliance.

  3. The Kingdom of Emor: Moriaul nodded, and his crystal flared, confirming that the dragons saw a strength worthy of respect in the humans from the east.

  4. The Principality of Agartha: Magar smiled as he voted "yea." He could already see the benefits of trade.

  5. The Kingdom of Torquia, the Grand Duchy of Pandora, the Magocratic Federation of Magicreach, and the Union of Nigrat: The satellites and independent players followed the leaders, understanding that the winds of history were blowing from the east.

  Eight lights. An absolute majority.

  But there were dark spots.

  The seat of the Gra-Valkas Empire sat empty. Their delegation, humiliated and crushed in the backroom war of intelligence services, had left Cartalpas two days prior, leaving behind nothing but a trail of threats. Their crystal remained gray and dead.

  And the Annonrial Empire. Karl Krunch did not even flinch. He sat with his eyes closed, arms crossed over his chest, his wings pressed tightly against his back. He abstained. His silence was more eloquent than any "no."

  We do not care, his posture seemed to say. You may divide this world however you please. It does not concern us... for now.

  "The decision is made!" the Herald's voice, amplified by magic, drowned out the whispers in the hall. "It is hereby declared that the Russian Federation is recognized as the Fourth Superpower of the Central World! May their word be weighty and their shield strong!"

  The hall erupted in applause. Restrained from the aristocrats of the First Region, and thunderous from the pragmatists of the Second.

  In honor of this historic tectonic shift, a gala banquet was immediately organized at the Imperial Embassy. This was not merely a drinking party. It was a stock exchange of power. Here, amidst the clinking of crystal and the aromas of exquisite dishes, under the cover of toasts and smiles, true alliances were being forged. The Russian diplomats, finding themselves the center of attention, worked tirelessly, converting their new "Superpower" status into concrete agreements, trade routes, and military bases.

  Petrov raised his glass, locking eyes with Philliam. In the Mirishial's eyes, he read a mixture of respect and apprehension.

  You have let the wolf into the sheepfold, gentlemen, Petrov chuckled inwardly. And now you will have to live side by side with him.

  The Holy Mirishial Empire. Port of Cartalpas. Morning of the fourth day.

  The early morning of the fourth day over the port of Cartalpas was misty and cool. A dense, milky haze rolling in from the sea shrouded the towering spires of the magical towers and muffled the sounds of the awakening city. However, in the harbor where the Russian squadron was based, a special kind of activity reigned—not the chaotic bustle of an eastern bazaar, but the cold, rhythmic, and frighteningly efficient work of a massive military machine. The Russian diplomatic mission, having fulfilled all the objectives set by the President and the Security Council, was departing the capital of the Central World.

  On the bridge of the heavy nuclear missile cruiser Pyotr Velikiy, Foreign Minister Georgy Vorontsov cast one last look at the majestic panorama of Cartalpas. The city, which just yesterday had been seething with political passions, now seemed like a toy set against the backdrop of a leaden horizon. The Mirishial seeing-off party—a group of high-ranking officials led by Deputy Minister Alpana—stood on the pier, shivering as they wrapped themselves tightly in their robes. Their posture betrayed a mix of emotions: relief that these unpredictable and dangerous guests were leaving, and anxiety about a future where they would have to live by new rules written in Moscow.

  "Cast off lines," commanded the captain of the cruiser, and his voice, amplified by the PA system, rolled across the water, drowning out the cries of the seagulls.

  The colossal ships began to move. Without the aid of tugs, utilizing thrusters, they pulled away from the pier with a grace that seemed impossible for their cyclopean size. The water around them churned and foamed as the powerful propellers began to turn. It was unlike the clumsy departure of sailing fleets dependent on wind and magic. This was the departure of predators leaving a lair because it had become too small for them.

  In the center of the formation, like a floating city, the aircraft carrier majestically turned about. On its deck, lined up in perfect ranks, froze the MiG-29K fighters, their folded wings resembling spearheads. The crews, standing in dress formation on the decks, rendered a military salute to the city, which stood frozen in awe-struck terror. Thousands of Cartalpas residents poured onto the embankments to catch one last glimpse of this demonstration of power, the likes of which this world had never seen.

  Alexey Petrov approached the Minister, holding a secure tablet containing the final communiqué.

  "We got everything we wanted, Georgy Borisovich," he said quietly, looking at the receding shore. "Superpower status has been officially recognized. Trade preferences with Mu and Agartha are secured. And most importantly, we have driven a wedge between Mirishial and Gra-Valkas. Now they will be left to face each other alone, and we will watch from a safe distance."

  "Yes, Alexey, the game was played brilliantly," Vorontsov nodded. "We didn't let ourselves get dragged into someone else's war, but we secured the position of arbiter. Mirishial got its 'ally,' Eimor got hope for salvation from Ravernal, and Gra-Valkas... they got the illusion of impunity in the west. Course East, Captain. Take us home."

  The flotilla picked up speed. The gray steel hulks, leaving a wide wake behind them, cut through the waves, heading toward where, thousands of kilometers away, lay their Motherland—which had now become not just a country, but the new pole of power for this entire world. Astern of the Russian squadron, the Old World remained, sinking into the abyss of an inevitable war, while they—the guardians of armed neutrality—were leaving to prepare for the true threat, the shadow of which was already falling upon the horizon.

  Central World. Magdola Archipelago. Southwest of the Holy Mirishial Empire.

  The majestic 0th Magic Fleet of the Holy Mirishial Empire, the jewel in the crown of the ruler of the seas, was conducting large-scale maneuvers in the waters of the Magdola Archipelago. This spectacle inspired awe in any observer. In a strict column formation, cutting through the turquoise waves with their sharp bows, sailed three of the newest Mithril-class magic battleships. Their snow-white hulls, covered in intricate protective runes, shone in the sun, and the absence of smokestacks emphasized the purity of their motive power. They were accompanied by six heavy armored cruisers, five small magic gunboats, and a support squadron. But the main ornaments of the fleet were two Rodeus-class aircraft carriers—giant trimarans whose flight decks resembled the wide squares of the capital.

  Officers and sailors in impeccably white uniforms with gold aiguillettes stood watch with a sense of their own superiority. They knew: in this world, there is no force capable of challenging the "Invincible Armada." The waters around the archipelago were clear, but the rocks and reefs hidden by fog and strong currents made this area a graveyard for primitive sailing vessels. However, for nature's magic engines, no barriers existed.

  In the bridge of the Combat Information Center of the flagship, the battleship Colebrand, a coolness and the quiet hum of storage crystals reigned.

  "Hm?" the assistant navigator, a young lieutenant, narrowed his eyes in bewilderment, looking at the round screen of the Eye of God magic detector. "Sir, I am detecting a strange anomaly."

  Faint, lime-green dots pulsed barely noticeably on the matte glass of the instrument. This was uncharacteristic. The magic radar reacted to mana emissions. If the dots were dim, it meant either negligible magical power or...

  "Captain Cromwell, sir!" the lieutenant's voice trembled with tension.

  "What is the matter?" the captain, a tall man with a cold gaze, approached the console.

  "A group of targets to the north of us. Twelve pennants. Magic signature—almost zero, at the level of background noise from living organisms. But... they are moving straight toward us. Speed... twenty-seven knots!"

  The captain frowned.

  "Twenty-seven knots? Without magic? Impossible. Request identification. It could be the new destroyers of Mu on their oil engines."

  "Sir, I sent a query on all mana-communication channels! No answer. The object is maintaining total radio silence... Wait! They are accelerating! Speed—twenty-nine... thirty knots! They are moving to intercept!"

  Thirty knots. A speed of 56 kilometers per hour. For vessels without a magical drive, this was beyond the realm of understanding.

  "This is not Mu..." Cromwell whispered. "Mu would not behave so aggressively."

  He straightened up and barked:

  "Attention all hands! This is the captain! Battle stations! Prepare to repel an attack by an unidentified enemy! All mages to combat posts! Load the bow guns with magic high-explosive rounds!"

  The piercing, modulated wail of a siren swept over the waves. The ethereal calm was shattered. A minute later, the fleet commander, Admiral Battista, strode briskly onto the bridge. His cape fluttered, and an expression of irritation from his interrupted lunch was frozen on his face.

  "What is happening, Cromwell? Who dared disturb the exercises?"

  "Twelve targets, Admiral. High-speed. Running without magic, but very fast. I suspect... Gra-Valkas. It is the only explanation."

  Battista curled his lips in contempt.

  "Those savages with mechanical toys? Madmen. Request support from the Air Service. Let them teach the insolent fools a lesson."

  " The order has already been relayed to the Rodeus carriers, sir! The air group is launched! Twenty-five Beta-2 bombers are in the air! Time to intercept—fifteen minutes!"

  Meanwhile, on the decks of the aircraft carriers, high-engineering magic was at work. Officers in safety goggles gave the signal. The trailing edges of the wings of the squat, predatory Beta-2 aircraft glowed with a blue radiance. The light-compression engines roared. It was not the crude roar of burning fuel; it was the high, piercing whistle of compressed air and unleashed magic. Streams of ionized air blasted from the nozzles, and the heavy magic bombers, accelerating along the deck without catapults, shot into the sky like candles, leaving a shimmering trail behind them.

  On the horizon, where the detectors pointed, thick clouds of greasy black smoke began to rise, staining the flawless blue of the sky.

  "And here are our guests," Admiral Battista said, looking at the veil of smoke with disgust. "Dirty barbarians. They defile the heavens with their soot and do not even understand what true mastery of magic means."

  He turned to the officers, and his voice, amplified by magic, thundered over the bridge:

  "Gentlemen! It is necessary to teach these presumptuous upstarts a lesson in good manners and true grandeur. Show them the chasm between a mechanical craft and divine art. Guns to battle! Show them the power of the 0th Magic Fleet! Do not shame the honor of the Emperor!"

  "Yes, Admiral! For the Sacred Empire!" the roar of hundreds of voices merged into a single cry, full of fanatical belief in their own invincibility.

  Admiral Battista smiled barely noticeably, adjusting his gloves. He was absolutely certain that this would not be a battle, but a punitive flogging. He did not yet know that the black smoke on the horizon concealed steel monsters that could see right through his ships and were already aiming their decidedly non-magical, yet deadly, 46-centimeter guns.

  Central World. Magdola Archipelago.

  Gra-Valkas Empire Task Force.

  The Second Fleet of the Gra-Valkas Empire, the vanguard of the "Conquest Squadron," was steaming in a "Diamond" combat formation. In the center, spewing columns of greasy anthracite smoke into the sky, moved two high-speed Betelgeuse-class battleships. These steel leviathans, encased in angular armor and bristling with the barrels of dual-purpose guns, were the pinnacle of engineering in the age of oil and steam. They were screened by three heavy cruisers, two light cruisers, and five destroyers, creating a dense, echeloned air defense umbrella.

  On the bridge of the flagship battleship Orion (Betelgeuse-class), Vice-Admiral Alcaid lowered his heavy naval binoculars. The air here didn't smell of ozone, as it did on Mirishial ships, but of heated machine oil, tobacco, and burnt gunpowder—the smell of real war.

  "Contact confirmed," his voice was dry and devoid of emotion, like the grinding of metal. "Three large pennants, presumably battleships, accompanied by cruisers. Typical 'parade formation.' They aren't even trying to maneuver."

  Standing nearby, Captain Berdan nervously adjusted his peaked cap.

  "The enemy exceeds us in displacement and possibly in caliber, sir. Those Mithrils... intelligence reported that their armor is reinforced with magical fields."

  "Armor is armor, Captain. And physics is the same in all worlds," Alcaid cut him off. "Do not let me down."

  At that moment, the silence of the bridge was shattered by the report of the radar operator sitting in a darkened corner in front of a round, flickering screen:

  "Attention! Group air target! Azimuth zero-two-five! Distance thirty kilometers! Twenty-five contacts! High closing speed, descending! Estimated time to engagement zone—three minutes!"

  The Vice-Admiral instantly switched into combat mode. This was the moment of truth.

  "Sound air defense stations! Cruisers—lay down a long-range flak screen. Destroyers—dense barrage fire by sectors. Main caliber—load high-explosive with time fuzes for low-altitude engagement. Weapons free on readiness!"

  "Aye, sir!" the officers echoed.

  The sea around them boiled. The destroyers sailing in the vanguard sharply increased their RPMs, their turbines howling as they squeezed out maximum knots to take up positions for crossfire.

  At the same time, the airspace above the fleet.

  Twenty-five Beta-2 bombers of the Holy Mirishial Empire Air Force were beginning their attack run. These elegant machines, resembling silver birds of prey with forward-swept wings, moved silently, powered by compressed air magic. The Squadron Commander, Knight of the Sky Omega, looked down with contempt at the smoke-belching "iron tubs" below.

  "Target in sight. Visually—primitive steel boxes. No signs of magic shields, no mana-accumulators. This will be easier than training," he transmitted via mental link. "Boys, let's show the barbarians the power of the First Civilization. We are coming in at tree-top level."

  Each Beta-2 carried a 520-kilogram "Heaven's Wrath" magic bomb in its bay, capable of blowing a fortress apart. They were used to their speed and altitude making them invulnerable to ordinary arrows or ballistae.

  But they were wrong. Fatally wrong.

  As soon as the squadron descended to one and a half kilometers, the sky in front of them suddenly turned into hell.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!

  The sky bloomed with hundreds of black puffs of explosions. The Gra-Valkans were using anti-aircraft shells with proximity fuses. Shards of steel, accelerated by the blast, shredded the elegant but fragile hulls of the magic planes, not giving them a chance.

  "What is this?! Air explosion magic?!" the wingman's pilot screamed in horror as his canopy shattered into smithereens.

  "They are shooting fire!" another yelled.

  Long, angry dotted lines stretched up from the ships below. These weren't "bullets of light," as it seemed to the mages. These were tracer rounds from 25mm and 40mm anti-aircraft autocannons. A wall of lead and steel was being created that they had to fly through.

  Bullets stitched through wings and ruptured magical fuel circuits, causing the detonation of unstable mana.

  "I'm hit! Mana-engine losing compression! I'm going down!" a panicked scream rang out over the airwaves.

  Omega watched with horror as three of his best pilots turned into balls of fire in a second.

  "It can't be... Their shells don't require a direct hit! They create a death zone! Break formation! Evasive maneuvers!"

  But maneuvering under such dense fire, guided not by eyes but by soulless fire control directors, was suicide. Four more planes fell apart in the air, caught in the "buzzsaw" of the destroyers' quad AA mounts.

  By the time they broke through to the battleships, only a pitiful handful remained of the proud squadron—fifteen battered machines. Fear gripped Omega's heart. These barbarians weren't just shooting back; they were executing a mathematically precise scheme of destruction.

  "Drop! Everyone drop! We're bugging out!" Omega screamed, no longer thinking about aiming. "Give them death and get the hell out of here!"

  Fifteen heavy bombs separated from the fuselages. Slicing the air with a characteristic whistle, they rushed downward.

  The battleship Orion (Betelgeuse-class), demonstrating agility surprising for its size, banked into a hard turn to port. The water around the ship erupted in geysers from near misses. Magic struck the water, boiling it instantly.

  But one bomb found its target. It struck the superstructure, just behind the second main battery turret.

  BOOOOM!

  A flash of magical flame blinded the anti-aircraft gunners. The ship shuddered through its entire 35,000-ton hull. Black smoke, mixed with a magical glow, poured out thicker than before.

  On the bridge of the battleship Colebrand (Mirishial).

  "Hit! We have a direct hit!" the lieutenant reported triumphantly, looking through the magic sight.

  Admiral Battista nodded with satisfaction, but his smile was strained.

  "Five shot down... no, ten of our machines shot down for a single hit?" he muttered, disbelief slipping into his voice. "That smoke... their ship should have broken in half from the Heaven's Wrath. But it keeps going. It hasn't even slowed down!"

  "Perhaps they have an extremely effective damage control system, or they used primitive but thick physical armor to absorb the magical strike," Captain Cromwell suggested.

  Indeed, on the Orion, damage control parties had already contained the fire. The armored deck had held. The damage was serious but not fatal—part of the superstructure was blown off, and two anti-aircraft guns were destroyed, but the engine room and the main artillery remained intact. The Gra-Valkan ships were built with a safety margin designed to withstand impacts from 406mm shells, not high-explosive bombs.

  Battista frowned.

  "Well then, Captain. It seems their 'gunboats' are tougher than they look. Look at their vanguard. The destroyers are moving out. Do they intend to use torpedoes? Suicidal. Without magic guidance, at that speed..."

  Cromwell bowed his head.

  "I am afraid I am confused, Commander. Their actions... are too synchronous for savages. They act like a single mechanism. And look at those turrets. The ones in the back."

  Indeed, the main caliber turrets of the Gra-Valkan battleships—huge, angular, resembling medieval castles—were slowly and smoothly rotating in their direction.

  "Report from magic sensors! The enemy fleet has entered the main battery engagement zone! Range: 34 kilometers!" the communications officer shouted.

  Battista straightened up, squaring his shoulders. Fear vanished, giving way to the thrill of the hunter. Now, everything would be decided by caliber and magic.

  "Excellent. They are in our trap. 34 kilometers... Do they think they can reach us with their gunpowder firecrackers from that distance? Naive. Our mages have already begun concentrating mana."

  "Range closing! 30 kilometers!"

  "Fleet orders!" Battista barked. "Main battery—prepare for battle! Open fire when ready! Wipe this rust off the face of the ocean!"

  The Mithril battleships began to glow. The runes on their hulls flared up, concentrating colossal energy in the breeches of the guns. They were preparing to deliver a strike that was supposed to put an end to this farce. They did not yet know that the electromechanical computers on the Gra-Valkan ships had already generated a firing solution, and in the barrels of those monstrous guns, shells that knew no miss were already being rammed home.

  Flagship battleship Orion (Betelgeuse-class). Bridge.

  Vice Admiral Alcaid felt a cold trickle of sweat running down his back. Moments ago, the ship had shuddered from a monstrous impact—one of the Beta-2 magic bombs had found its target. But a battleship is not a fragile destroyer. Its designers, the engineers of the Empire, had calculated its survivability against the artillery fire of a peer adversary.

  "Report damage!" the Admiral's voice drowned out the wail of the siren.

  "Hit on the starboard side, near frame 135! Upper deck penetrated, fire in the wardroom and auxiliary spaces. The armor belt is intact. Engineering and magazines are green! No loss of speed!"

  Alcaid gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white. They had held. Their steel had withstood the magic.

  "Excellent. Damage control parties—contain the fire." He raised his binoculars, looking at the glittering white dots of the enemy ships in the distance. "Now, let's show these 'gods' what real artillery means. Let them understand that there is no place in this ocean beyond our reach!"

  "Main battery—engage!"

  Deep within the bowels of the giant ship, work reached a fever pitch. Gears turned, electric motors hummed, and sailors in oil-stained dungarees fed colossal silk powder bags of cordite into the breeches. The ship's mechanical brain—the electromechanical fire control computer—crunched and clicked as it processed data: target speed, own speed, humidity, and the rotation of the planet.

  "Range 34,000 meters! Firing solution locked!" reported the Chief Gunnery Officer.

  "All ships—salvo fire on the flagship! Fire when ready!" Alcaid commanded.

  On the Orion and her sister ship, the Procyon, steaming in her wake, the giant twin-gun main battery turrets began to rotate with a heavy grinding sound. Four turrets on each ship. Sixteen 356mm barrels raised to the sky at a 43-degree angle, like the pointing fingers of doom.

  "FIRE!"

  The world shattered for an instant. A deafening roar, felt not by the ears but by the diaphragm, slammed into them. The 36,000-ton ship shifted sideways from the recoil like a toy. Giant tongues of flame burst from the barrels, vaporizing the water around them. Sixteen heavy armor-piercing shells, each weighing half a ton, broke the sound barrier as they exited the barrels at Mach 2.2 and soared into the stratosphere, leaving a smoky trail behind them.

  Silence reigned on the bridge, broken only by the clicking of a stopwatch in an officer's hand.

  "Estimated time of flight—1 minute 13 seconds."

  Time stretched infinitely slowly. In modern warfare, death comes from the skies, and waiting for its arrival is the hardest trial.

  "...10... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... Splashdown!"

  In the distance, around the dense formation of the Mirishial fleet, giant, hundred-meter columns of water rose silently. Seconds later, the sound arrived—a low, heavy rumble of death falling from the sky.

  "Over! I see splashes astern of the target!" the spotter shouted.

  "Adjust fire! Left 0-02, drop 400!" the gunnery officer commanded coolly. "Rapid fire!"

  The turrets sprang into action again, reloading for the next strike. The first salvo had been a ranging shot. Now, the bracket was closing.

  On the bridge of the HME magic flagship battleship Colebrand.

  The atmosphere on the bridge shifted from triumphant to alarmed in a split second.

  "Flashes on the horizon!" the lookout shouted. "Multiple clouds of smoke!"

  Captain Cromwell froze, his eyes widening.

  "W-what?! They opened fire?! From thirty-four kilometers?! That is impossible!"

  "Magic sensors aren't detecting any mana buildup! It is pure kinetics!" the detector operator's voice trembled.

  "Incoming!" screamed the sensor mage. "Shells are coming in on a ballistic trajectory from the upper atmosphere! The speed is off the charts!"

  "Their range exceeds ours?!" Admiral Battista felt the ground drop out from under him. He, the commander of a fleet of a superior civilization, found himself in the position of a savage being shot at with a musket while waving a club. But he was an Admiral.

  "Defensive positions! Activate the Water Aegis! Reinforce structural integrity! Armor to Diamond mode!"

  This was the pinnacle of Mirishial magical science. Not a crude force field like those of primitive mages, but a complex, multilayered defense.

  First, the hull of each Mithril-class battleship was enveloped in a film of dim blue light. A sphere of super-dense, magically structured water formed around the ship. The task of this Water Aegis was not to stop the shell—that was impossible against such mass—but, acting like a non-Newtonian fluid, to strike it, knock it off its trajectory, and "smear" the kinetic impact across the entire surface area of the defense.

  Then, the second circuit activated. The armor plates of the ships, made of a special orichalcum-mithril alloy, began to change their crystal lattice at the atomic level under the influence of magic. The metal compressed, becoming harder, ready to take the monstrous hit.

  And the blow came.

  Giant pillars of water rose around the ships, blocking out the sun. The roar of explosions as the 356mm shells struck the water and the seabed in the shallows caused the ships themselves to vibrate even through their protection. The Aegis water barrier shone, absorbing the shockwave.

  Not a single shell hit.

  The oppressive silence on the bridge was replaced by nervous sighs of relief, which quickly grew into contemptuous chuckles.

  "They missed."

  "The shells landed with a spread of half a kilometer!" reported an officer. "Their accuracy at such a distance is negligible!"

  Admiral Battista squared his shoulders, shaking off his momentary fear.

  "Ha! So that is all the savages are capable of," he said with a sneer. "A lot of noise, zero result. They are just throwing iron at random, hoping for luck. Their barbaric cannons do not possess the Eye of God targeting systems."

  He turned to Cromwell, and the fire of arrogance, fatal and blinding, shone in his eyes once more.

  "Cancel armor reinforcement! Save mana for the attack! Prepare main batteries! We are entering our engagement zone! Let us show them how a magical civilization strikes!"

  "Aye, sir!" Cromwell responded.

  The HME artillery crews began their ritual. The barrels of their elegant, engraved magical guns began to fill with pulsating blue light, accumulating a charge for the shot.

  Battista did not understand one thing. The Gra-Valkas gunners were not shooting "at random." They had bracketed his fleet. The first salvo was short, the second was long. The next salvo would smother the target. And no mana conservation would help when tons of steel and TNT slammed into their broadside.

  The Mirishial main caliber magic guns were the pinnacle of their civilization—remnants from the Ancient Sorcerous Empire. Unlike primitive gunpowder cannons, their charging process required surgical precision and colossal mental strain. This was not mechanics; this was the alchemy of war in real-time.

  A hum reigned inside the armored turrets. Giant mana-condensers located in the breech of the guns began to pulsate, sucking energy from the ship's Orichalcum-Heart reactor. Techno-mage artillery officers, dressed in insulating robes, inserted special Matrix Cores—complex crystalline spheres covered in micron-sized runes—into the chambers with tense faces. A reaction immediately began around the cores: liquid mana under colossal pressure was injected into the chamber, forming unstable plasma ready for ejection.

  "Attention all stations! Initiating Main Battery charging cycle!" the voice of the senior magic officer trembled with tension. "Protocol Heaven's Wrath. Warhead programming: saturation 72% — Lightning Element, 28% — Fire Element! Priority: shield penetration and electronics destruction!"

  "Programming confirmed!" the operators responded. "Stabilizing mixture... Activating rune chains... Circuit closed!"

  The air in the turret filled with the smell of ozone and static electricity that made hair stand on end. The indicators on the panels changed color from anxious yellow to aggressive crimson.

  "Composition report! Lightning — 82%, Fire — 16%, entropy impurity — normal!" reported the technician. "Accumulator energy saturation: 85%... 90%... 95%... FULL CHARGE! Guns switched to combat mode!"

  On the bridge, Admiral Battista gripped the handrails. He could feel the deck vibrating under his feet from the power accumulated deep within the ship.

  "Fire when ready! Eye of God data loaded!"

  "Coordinates received! Distance is extreme, Coriolis correction... elevation angle 31 degrees! Left 22! Hit probability — 23%!" shouted the gunner.

  The magic timer counted down the seconds like the heartbeats of a dying man.

  "Countdown... Three... Two... One... SALVO!"

  This was not the roar of an explosion that the people of Earth were used to. It was the sound of the fabric of the universe being torn apart. A deafening, shrieking crack of compressed air and mana.

  The Mithril-class battleships shuddered. From eighteen gigantic barrels, it was not clouds of smoke that erupted simultaneously, but blinding spears of azure light. The magical shells, shrouded in plasma cocoons, soared into the stratosphere, leaving ionized trails behind them.

  On board a Gra-Valkas destroyer (Vanguard).

  "Flashes! Bearing one-eight-zero! They've opened return fire!" screamed the signalman.

  Vice Admiral Alcaid on the Orion reacted instantly. He knew what artillery was.

  "Hard a-starboard! Change course! Don't move in a straight line! Zigzag!"

  The Mirishial shells, having described a high arc, began their descent. Their glow became unbearably bright as they approached the water.

  "Impact in five... four..."

  The water around the Gra-Valkan squadron boiled. The magic shells did not require a direct hit to detonate—they exploded upon contact with the surface, unleashing a monstrous mixture of electrical discharges and magical flame.

  KA-BOOM! CR-R-RACK!

  The ocean lit up with flashes. Water columns saturated with lightning rose tens of meters into the air. But not a single ship was grazed. Gra-Valkas, accustomed to maneuver warfare, had managed to change position during the ninety seconds the shells were flying toward the target.

  "No hits! Overshot!" Cromwell reported on the bridge of the Colebrand. His face darkened. "Recalculate ballistics! They are faster than we thought! Correction: drop four degrees, left twenty-seven! Move!"

  Second attempt. The Mirishial gunners, dripping with sweat, reloaded the guns with a speed unthinkable for them. Usually, the cycle took three minutes. Now, under fear of death and disgrace, they were squeezing everything out of the mana-reactors, risking blowing themselves up.

  "Energy restored! Hit probability recalculated—42%! Guns ready! FIRE!"

  Mirishial's second salvo went into the sky earlier than anyone expected. It was a race against death.

  And in that same second, the horizon lit up with return flashes. Gra-Valkas had also fired a second salvo. 46-centimeter and 35-centimeter shells were already in the air, this time with precise corrections.

  "Incoming!" the observer screamed. "Activate barriers! Take cover!"

  Cromwell clenched his teeth, praying to every god he knew.

  Just let it not be them... just let us be first...

  This time, Gra-Valkan mathematics did not work perfectly—the Mirishials had also changed course. Huge geysers from the heavy shells rose like a wall around the Colebrand, shrapnel drummed against the magic barrier, but the armor held.

  However, the Mirishial gunners did not miss this time.

  Seven kilometers from the Colebrand, one of the Gra-Valkan escort destroyers sailing ahead of the formation suddenly turned into a fireball. A 380-millimeter magic shell, saturated with lightning, struck it right in the middle of the hull.

  CRACK-BOOM!

  The sound was like the crack of a giant whip. Magical energy instantly vaporized metal, detonated torpedo tubes, and burned out all the ship's electronics. The destroyer simply snapped in half and vanished in a cloud of steam.

  "WE HAVE A HIT!" screamed the mana-radar officer. "Target class 'Destroyer' destroyed! And... I see a critical hit on a heavy pennant!"

  The second shell struck a Blucher-class heavy cruiser accompanying the battleships. It did not penetrate the main armor belt, but the explosion of the Lightning Element on the deck burned away all antennas and rangefinders and set the superstructure on fire, blinding the ship.

  "YEAAAHHH!" a triumphant cry burst from the throats of the officers on the Mirishial bridge. "Take that, you iron bastards! That is what the wrath of the Empire means!"

  Battista smiled predatorily, seeing the smoke on the horizon. He did not yet know that these strikes were painful but not fatal for the steel leviathans of Gra-Valkas. And that in response, the enraged "beast" was about to show its real fangs, which did not depend on a 42 percent hit probability.

  But in this second, the triumph was theirs.

  Flagship HME "Colebrand". Bridge.

  Admiral Battista gripped the railing of the command bridge, his eyes fixed on the burning silhouette of the enemy battleship.

  "It seems their engine room has been destroyed by magical resonance. The ship is losing speed," he said with grim satisfaction. "Finish it! Now, while our shields still ho..."

  He didn't get to finish.

  A dull, sickening shriek of metal on metal tore through the air, drowning out even the roar of the cannonade. Three kilometers off the port bow, the newest battleship Clarent suddenly shuddered. From its side, just below the main armored deck, a column of fire and steam erupted.

  "Clarentis hit!" shouted the damage control officer, pressing a manacomm to his ear. "Direct hit by a 356-millimeter armor-piercing shell! Water Aegis overloaded and collapsed! The shell passed through the mithril belt! Detonation in the mana-reactor boiler room!"

  Battista felt a chill run down his spine. His hands, clad in white gloves, began to tremble.

  "They penetrated?!" he exhaled. "With pure kinetics, they punched through multilayered defense and hardened mithril? That means their shells are made of super-dense alloy... Their firepower equals ours! No... in penetration power, they surpass us!"

  The belief in the absolute invincibility of the magical fleet cracked. The Clarent listed to starboard, enveloped in steam—seawater flooded the superheated mana-circuits, causing secondary explosions.

  "Look! Enemy vanguard!" Cromwell's voice shook the Admiral out of his stupor.

  Five destroyers of the Gra-Valkas Empire, those very "gunboats" looming on the frontline, suddenly and synchronously, as if commanded by a single brain, put their helms over. They sharply turned 180 degrees and, spewing clouds of thick smoke (a smoke screen), began to retreat at full throttle.

  "Are they... running away?" Cromwell frowned in bewilderment.

  Confusion reigned on the bridge. The admirals were used to "wall-on-wall" line tactics.

  "Cowards," Battista exhaled contemptuously but with relief. "They realized they were caught in the crossfire of our battleships. Their pathetic 127-millimeter guns can't hurt us, so they're saving their skins."

  "But why now specifically? They didn't even try to close in to use their 'simple' magic," Cromwell doubted. Something in the geometry of this battle bothered him. "Could they be luring us?"

  "It doesn't matter," said Battista sharply. A strategist's instinct demanded finishing off the enemy. "Their Flagship is stalled. It is doomed. All fire on the enemy flagship! Crush it!"

  The Mirishial battleships shifted fire. The trajectories of azure tracers converged on the unfortunate Procyon. The disabled ship became a perfect target. Magical shells bit into its steel flesh one by one. Flashes of "lightning magic" burned out electronics, and "fire magic" melted bulkheads.

  Twelve main battery hits. Seven secondary. The proud Gra-Valkan battleship, a veteran of wars in its own world, could not withstand it. After another explosion, its keel apparently snapped. The ship, groaning with tearing metal, began to capsize. Giant propellers appeared above the water, and the Procyon, dragging a crew of a thousand into the abyss, sank.

  "Target destroyed!" the enthusiastic yell of the observers drowned out the noise of battle.

  "Remaining enemy ships are retreating behind the smoke screen! They are disengaging!"

  Battista allowed himself to exhale. Victory. Yes, heavy. Yes, unexpectedly bloody. But victory.

  "Such is the power of the Empire," he said, trying to return the former authority to his voice. "They paid in blood for their audacity. To lose a battleship, a cruiser... But we too..."

  He looked back at the formation. The Clarent sat heavy in the water, shrouded in steam and smoke from emergency generators. Other ships also had holes. Personnel losses numbered in the hundreds.

  "We are the strongest fleet in the world..." he whispered. "And we were battered like this by savages without magic? You cannot call this victory easy."

  "Sir! Acoustic contact!" the sudden shout of the sonar operator was full of panic. Magical sonar worked poorly against metal, but it heard propeller noise. "Multiple high-frequency noises underwater! Rapid approach! Bearing straight ahead!"

  "What?!" Cromwell went cold.

  No one on the bridge had seen how those very "fleeing" destroyers, hiding behind the smoke screen before turning, had dropped their main argument into the water — 610-millimeter oxygen torpedoes. They ran without a bubble trail, deep underwater, at a speed of 90 kilometers per hour. Long-range battleship killers.

  "Look! Foam trails at the Clarent's side!" yelled the signalman.

  Too late.

  KA-BOOM! KA-BOOM! BOOM!

  Three monstrously powerful explosions threw water higher than the masts. The shockwave of the hydrodynamic impact acted like a guillotine. The battleship Clarent, the pride of magi-engineering, which lacked torpedo protection designed for such powerful warheads, was simply tossed above the water. Its hull, already weakened by a shell hit, could not hold. With a terrible grinding sound, the ship snapped in half.

  The bow section instantly went underwater. The stern reared up, and the still-spinning propellers helplessly thrashed the air.

  "Clarent... destroyed! Instantly!" the voice of the communications officer broke into a squeal. "Captain... those were torpedoes! They attacked from a distance of 15 kilometers! That is impossible! Our torpedoes have a maximum range of five!"

  "Bastards... They lured us..." wheezed Cromwell, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white. "The destroyers... it wasn't a retreat... it was a launch!"

  Admiral Battista stood pale as a sheet. He had just lost a third of his strike force. But fate had prepared a blow for him more terrible than a torpedo.

  "REPORT FROM MAGIC AIR SURVEILLANCE RADAR!" the radar operator's voice trembled so much that the words were barely distinguishable. "Attention all fleet! Massive air target! These are not wyverns! Multiple mechanical engine signatures!"

  "How many?!"

  "I... I am losing count! One hundred... one hundred fifty... Two hundred! More than two hundred contacts! Distance 50 kilometers! Time to arrival—six minutes!"

  Admiral Battista raised his head. The sky to the southwest, clear just a minute ago, began to darken. But not from clouds. It was a swarm. Like locusts blocking out the sun, an armada of aircraft was approaching the fleet—Antares fighters, Sirius dive bombers, and Rigel torpedo bombers, launched from the carriers of the Gra-Valkan Main Carrier Task Force.

  The roar of hundreds of piston engines reached the ships, drowning out the noise of the waves. It was the sound of death itself.

  "More than two hundred machines?" Battista's lips turned white. "This isn't reconnaissance... This is an execution. They want to destroy us."

  He realized that his fleet, trapped in narrow waters, devoid of maneuverability and air defense aviation, was about to turn into a shooting gallery.

  "ATTENTION ALL FLEET!" he screamed, and fear sounded in his voice for the first time. "Prepare to repel a massive air attack! Air defense—weapons free! Barrier mages—maximum power, even if the crystals burn out! Shield energy—to 140 percent! Pray to the gods, gentlemen! Because no one else will save us."

  The barrels of hundreds of anti-aircraft guns and magic emitters rose to the sky, meeting the black cloud carrying on its wings an iron sentence for the age of magic.