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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Vorosimorsk accompanied Monack to visit each household, inquiring about their well-being and offering assistance where needed. He didn't place too much weight on this task; to him, it was merely a humanitarian gesture, akin to those in Syria or perhaps Europe. He had to admit, though, that despite being of the same age, he and Monack inhabited entirely different worlds of thought. Monack was a pragmatist, yet he held an optimistic vision for a brighter future.

That wasn't necessarily a flaw, but for Vorosimorsk, it was a weakness. The wars against MIR and the West had taught him enough about the brutal truths of reality, along with pains too deep to ever fade. Every night, those memories threatened to consume him, to feast on him like a perfectly cooked meal.

He stroked his chin, observing the villagers as they went about their daily tasks, just as they had before the remnants of the Papaldian forces attacked. The light in their eyes was no longer the same—a natural consequence of a burgeoning era of militarism. Vorosimorsk himself disapproved of the government's actions.

To allow an entire region, spanning millions of kilometers, to descend into anarchy and rampant militarism was evidence of a rapidly unfolding era of warlordism. Vorosimorsk wasn't one to meddle in politics like Makarov, but he couldn't deny that the government was struggling to control such a vast territory while accepting that complete control was unattainable.

Perhaps they had calculated the costs and benefits, he thought. A land like this—scattered with hundreds of armed groups, local warlords, resurgent nobles, rebel militias, remnants of Papaldia, and old resistance forces—wasn't something that could be pacified with decrees from Moscow. Even if they intervened, it would only pour fuel on the fire.

Vorosimorsk said nothing, quietly trailing Monack as the latter shook hands with a woman carrying water from the village well. Monack's gentle gestures and soft words were true to his character. But Vorosimorsk knew those smiles wouldn't last if another armed group swept through, pillaging, extorting, and raising a different flag.

"We're putting out fires with buckets of water," he murmured.

Monack turned, his eyes surprised by the cryptic remark. "What's that?"

"Nothing," Vorosimorsk replied, shaking his head. "Just thinking about how we're handling this... like putting bandages on a gangrenous wound."

Monack sighed. "And what would you do? Station regular troops in every village? Rebuild everything from the ground up? Or set up a military government to rule them with an iron fist?"

"No," Vorosimorsk answered bluntly. "I just want them to understand that those smiles shouldn't be fooled by the uniforms we wear."

Monack fell silent. Perhaps he understood. Perhaps not. But they both knew the Russian government was in a bind: loosen control, and chaos would reign; tighten it, and they'd be despised. Both paths were stained with blood—it was only a question of where, how much, and whose.

In the distance, Vorosimorsk saw a child sitting alone, eyes bewildered amid the ruins of what was once their home. It wasn't hard to guess—perhaps their parents had perished in a Papaldian raid or in some skirmish between rival factions. Vorosimorsk approached and crouched down.

"What's your name?"

The child didn't respond, clutching a tattered teddy bear, staring at him as though he were part of a nightmare.

"This is what I mean, Monack," he said softly, without looking back. "We're not bringing peace. We're only bringing temporary calm—until the next wave of chaos."

Monack, standing behind, was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Maybe so. But I still believe... amid the scars, some will grow up without becoming monsters."

Vorosimorsk stood, patted the child's shoulder, and turned away. He didn't respond—neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Some things couldn't be settled with words; only time and ashes would provide the final verdict.

The two stood beneath a large tree outside the village, gazing at the near-total chaos of the previous day. Monack looked at Vorosimorsk with kindness, tinged with curiosity about what was stirring in his mind.

"What makes you think 'our' land will never be the same?" Monack asked, his eyes serious as they fixed on the Colonel.

Vorosimorsk spat to the side, regarding Monack as a man who still didn't grasp politics—or even war, the conflicts raging across hidden fronts under the guise of false peace.

"'The same' is just a phrase here. It's not about change—it's about decline, if you understand..." Vorosimorsk pointed north. "...If you don't know, we—Russians—are here, trying to control this entire region by any means: soft power, aid, cooperation, or violence, control, and chaos... all justifications for an era of instability. We don't claim it's right, but it's right for us... in a sense. This is how we face an era of turmoil in our old homeland."

Monack followed Vorosimorsk's gesture, a hint of doubt in his worldview, wondering if such harshness was truly necessary in a world that had changed, or if it was merely a relic of past nightmares. He exhaled but said nothing.

Vorosimorsk continued, his voice hoarse but laced with bitterness:

"Why do you think we succeeded in crushing Papaldia? Not because we were tactically superior or more righteous. It's because we understood that victory lies not in nobility but in strangling the enemy before they can breathe. This world isn't fair—never has been. The longer I live, the more I believe... peace is just a pause between shifts in the color of blood."

Monack narrowed his eyes. "Are you justifying war?"

"No," Vorosimorsk shook his head. "I'm talking about reality. War doesn't need justification—it comes on its own. And when it does, you have a choice: wield it as a tool, or become the first corpse in the so-called 'dream of peace.'"

The wind swept through the forest behind the village, rustling dry leaves. A long moment passed, filled only with the sound of the breeze and the men's breathing—two opposing worldviews standing on the same ground, gazing toward an uncertain future.

Finally, Monack spoke, soft but firm:

"Then what do you live for, Solomon? If everything is temporary, if chaos is inevitable, what's our purpose? To impose order with blood and iron like ancient tyrants?"

Vorosimorsk smiled—for the first time since arriving in the village. It wasn't a relieved smile but a wry one, born of a man who'd stood amid battlefields, pulling a knife from a corpse to cut free a trapped comrade's ligaments.

"What do I live for? I don't know," he said slowly. "Maybe to spare others from seeing what I've seen. Or maybe to ensure that when chaos comes, it comes on our terms."

Monack didn't agree, but he didn't argue either. He understood that men like Vorosimorsk—however bloodstained their hands—were indispensable in this transitional era. A time with no angels, only demons who knew how to weep.

From the moment he saw the fighting prowess of those his daughter brought back—thinking undead, not ordinary humans with personal ambitions—it was clear they could bring calamity to this very land.

Nothing could save this nation, but nothing guaranteed Russia could control it forever either.

Vorosimorsk knew this better than anyone.

Each territory "liberated" by Russian forces was now just patches of land held together with the temporary glue of "stability." But beneath that adhesive lay deep fissures—hatred, separatism, local power struggles, and an indelible memory of Papaldia, a specter haunting the rear.

He didn't say this to Monack. It wasn't necessary. Monack didn't need to hear it.

Instead, he stepped back, leaning against the tree, his gaze drifting to the distant fields where villagers toiled, trying to rebuild crops amid the ruins. There was a strange beauty in their resilience—but also a tragedy. The tragedy of people who believed the next season would be different, though the blood of the last still stained their walls.

"Nothing lasts forever, not even us," he said, almost to himself. "Russia might win hearts, bring electricity, water, roads, and seeds. But when the specters return—specters of factionalism, vengeance, dreams of independence—how long can we stay?"

Monack nodded, not in agreement but in understanding. Despite their differing perspectives, they stood in a chess game where every move was paid in lives, and the cost of a misstep wasn't defeat—it was annihilation.

Farther off, faint smoke rose from village hearths. A few children played among collapsed houses—survivors, children of war. In their eyes, there was no "right" or "wrong," only "those with guns" and "those who aren't here anymore."

Vorosimorsk sighed. They would stay here a long time—perhaps too long—before any "civilian government" could be established. And even if it was, he wasn't sure it could survive a single winter.

He turned to Monack one last time, his gaze no longer sharp but calm, like a reprinted from one who'd lost too much to believe in optimism.

"Keep believing in the good, Allerian. Maybe that's what keeps you human."

Monack gave a sad smile. "And you?"

"I'm not sure I'm human anymore," Vorosimorsk replied. "But I still fight... for something like compassion, even if I don't call it that."

The wind rose again. The two men—the skeptic and the dreamer—stood silently under the tree's canopy, listening to the forest's echoes. No more words were needed. They understood each other. And they both knew: this era wasn't about debating right or wrong but choosing the mistake they could live with.

...

Lise stood before the village's old well, peering down—still water. She tossed a bucket down, pulling the rope with effort. The wooden bucket was heavy, and she gasped for breath as she hauled it up, using nearly all her strength.

She looked at her hands—calloused, yet revealing little of her power. Magic was her gift, but it wasn't used often. Instead, there were days-long treks—testing her endurance.

It was only the surface of an unrelenting physical regimen. For a mage, it might seem trivial, but it was as vital as water. Every march meant days on her ordinary feet.

She knew this. They didn't want her to be a doll casting fireballs. They needed someone who could endure—climb mountains for three days without rest, wade through mud, and still stay sharp enough to chant spells correctly, at the right moment.

Lise scooped water, its coolness easing a forgotten weight. In the water's reflection, she saw a younger face, crying, powerless. The Edinburg Academy was nothing but a nightmare she couldn't escape. People said everything in life was preordained, part of a divine plan.

It was no different from the delusional sermons of Rubrum Stella's ignorant priests. Six years there were enough to understand the nature of a "controlled empire."

"I need to do something to make them see me differently," she whispered, recalling her confession in Velsai Palace. They were good people—no blame, only empathy, willing to change their approach. She, too, needed to change something fundamental to earn their recognition.

She gazed into the water, pondering her deepest fear—herself. Not darkness, not grueling tests, not heretics burned before crowds. It was the disorientation of losing direction, losing purpose.

She still remembered that night. The dormitory slept, but she stood alone on the Academy's wind tower, overlooking a misty valley. Her heart was so empty it felt the wind could carry it away. Weak magic—that's what the Academy deemed her. No one sympathized; they only targeted her as a madwoman who didn't know when to stop.

It wounded her pride deeply, but worse was their dismissal of her efforts as meaningless. They were never meaningless. Lise Allerian poured her heart into history, but the records were vague, only hinting at an army aiding ancient Milishial legions, their defeat of darkness described subjectively.

Endless, uninspiring lessons drained her. Only that man, that old story, gave her purpose—the era was truly changing, and she believed everything followed a preordained rule.

She just never understood how that rule worked. But she believed the remnants of an old era could shape the present—and her companions' nation was that, or could be. The Academy never grasped this.

...

She hated lunch hour.

The Academy's cafeteria was always noisy, filled with peers laughing, sharing new spells or tales of blowing up a trainer's arm in practice. Vibrant, lively—and no place for her.

She sat at a table by the hallway's end window, where no one bothered to go because it was "cold," "near the restroom," or "musty." She didn't care. At least here, no one threw boiled eggs at her back or whispered "broken spirit," "obsessed," or "legendary lunatic."

Once, in applied tactics class, she argued that the continent's collapse tied to forbidden ancient texts. The class erupted in laughter. One student dropped their wand in hysterics.

"Come now," the instructor said, not looking at her. "I appreciate imagination, but this is practice, not a stage for dreamy archaeologists."

She stopped speaking up after that.

Only books and late-night essays remained, pages filled with ink—and sometimes blood, from nails digging into her palms.

But Lise never discarded them. Those ink-smeared, tear-stained pages were neatly stored in an old suitcase. In a world of flashy spells, writing by hand in silence was her quiet rebellion. She didn't need their validation. She just needed to prove herself—to herself.

Yet that pride couldn't save her from the final winter night at the Academy.

Snow blanketed the rooftops, freezing the windows and numbing her frail fingers. She was summoned to the headmaster's office—a vast, gloomy room with a flickering candle and three disciplinary council members.

"Vandalizing Academy property," one said.

"Accessing sealed documents without permission," another growled.

"Referencing heresy and ancient magic in your thesis," the last concluded.

No one asked why. The verdict was set before she entered.

"You're not expelled," the headmaster said after a pause. "But the Academy can no longer support you. Your scholarship is revoked. You may stay—if you pay."

A polite dismissal. A smug curl of the scholarly elite's lips for a "failure."

Then came the blunt declaration.

"If you wish to continue here, you must abandon those meaningless studies and focus on the official curriculum. Otherwise, you have one week to pack."

She walked away—no tears, no farewells. Just a quiet carriage rolling out, carrying a frail figure and a stack of old books.

...

Lise scooped another handful of water, wiping her face. It was cold, real—unlike the fake smiles in Edinburg's halls or the eyes that looked through her as if she didn't exist.

She gazed at the sky. Clouds drifted slowly. A calm enveloped her, with only the gentle wind through tall grass and the steady drip of water into the well. No Rubrum Stella, no judges, no mocking laughter.

Since joining Vorosimorsk, Kamarov, Petrov, and Rompev, everything changed. These silent Russian soldiers, with eyes that had seen countless wars, didn't belittle her. They didn't need her to outshine anyone. They just needed her to do her part—as a vital link.

They didn't want a hero. They needed a survivor, someone who could read ancient magical texts, distinguish pre-era runes without blowing up the map.

And she could.

She exhaled deeply, her chest unburdened for the first time in days. Her hand clenched—not in anger or fear, but resolve.

No one could define her anymore. No Academy, no council's "proper rules," no voices dismissing her in the dark.

Now, only the path ahead—and something ancient, buried deep, waiting to be unearthed.

Magic had rejected her. History had not.

And Lise Allerian—the rejected student, the forgotten doll, the failure in the Academy's eyes—would write a new chapter for the world.

Because history... is always written by the last survivor.

...

Kamarov and Petrov sat outside a church that had burned down the previous day. Ash still clung to the cold, damp bricks, and the wind sighed through the cracks like lingering spirits. They silently chewed on dry rations Monack had pressed into their hands before leaving—hard white bread, like baked bricks, and a few slices of salted meat from the monastery's now-ashed stores.

Petrov chewed slowly, each bite crunching like breaking bones. His eyes lingered on a cracked stone wall, where blackened soot formed a shape like a cross. Whether it was the lingering smell of char or the stench of death in the stones, his nose kept twitching.

"Damn..." Petrov exhaled, flipping the meat in his mouth as if seeking solace. "If this is what they described in the Gulag, I wouldn't last two days. My jaw would give out before I could swing a pickaxe."

He paused, chewed again, and nodded. "But at least it's better than the garbage rations from the 2012 training. Those were designed to break your psyche."

Kamarov didn't reply. His gaze fixed on the charred altar, where a fallen candle's wax had hardened into a grotesque shape—like tears never wiped away. He pulled the last cigarette from his coat pocket, his fingers trembling slightly as he lit it. Whether from cold or some creeping emotion, he couldn't tell.

"Damn it... my conscience is stirring again," he muttered, as if scolding an old, foolish friend.

Petrov glanced over, tilting his head as if catching something vague. Then, with a hint of mockery, he said seriously:

"I heard that. What the hell are you analyzing now? Seeing Azusa again, huh?" He gave a faint smirk, pulling out another cigarette but not lighting it, just holding it between his teeth. "No need to be so stiff. Let it flow, like that wax. The more you hold it, the more it hardens like this mess."

"You don't know shit, I'm freaking out here," Kamarov grimaced, but it wasn't from certainty—something vaguer.

"What's up? Your gut telling you something?"

"How do I put it? Something catastrophic's coming for Moscow—no, bigger than that."

"Something about... government statements? If only we'd brought that radio from the town, it'd be enough entertainment," Petrov said, then quickly backtracked. "Never mind, just kidding."

"Whatever. We'll deal with it when we're back. We'll get a break after this," Kamarov leaned back, not forgetting to remind him. "Check our survey reports. But... we're probably in for a lot of flak."

"Limited contact with HQ, harboring unauthorized people, acting on our own, dragging out the mission unnecessarily—smells like a demotion already."

"Screw it, Petro. We're no better than the old farts up top."

"Even the President?"

"Nah, if I mouthed off like that, it'd be October 1993 all over again," Kamarov chuckled dryly. "I mean the generals clinging to outdated doctrines instead of something better."

Kamarov pointed to the horizon. "I'd call it the Irkutsk Doctrine."

"Irkutsk Doctrine?"

"Yeah," he affirmed. "It's a doctrine I might pitch to the Ministry of Defense. It's drawn from battles against IS or MIR—tough enemies, nearly impossible to defeat completely without countermeasures."

Kamarov stood, brushing his hands with Petrov's. "You saw the fallout of Operation Thunderclap, 2018–2019. Seven months deployed, only to destroy ninety percent of their logistics and less than seventy percent of their forces. They scattered, regrouped like mushrooms after rain. No clear bases, no battle maps lasting over a week. And most importantly: they weren't afraid to die." He sighed. "Remember the final Okinsky battle?"

Petrov snorted, shaking his head in disgust—a tactical disaster. "Yeah... hundreds of drones broke through our and our allies' defenses, ending the campaign with over two thousand casualties on our side alone, with similar losses for other nations. A failure worth forgetting."

"The media avoided deep dives into the damage reports to prevent unrest," Kamarov stepped onto the village road. "But that doesn't mean the campaign should be ignored. It's a lesson for future operations to be more effective."

Petrov stood, tapping his boot on the ashen ground, as if stomping on smoldering memories. He lit his cigarette, took a deep drag, and turned to Kamarov with his usual crooked smile.

"So, tell me, professor. How's your Irkutsk Doctrine gonna work its magic? Strap drones to every loaf of bread? Or make terrorist groups file taxes and slap them with consumption fees?"

He winked. "I say we just nuke their gathering spots."

"Yeah, and when the international human rights groups show up, you'll be the first scapegoat, Petro," Kamarov replied evenly, his eyes glinting with weary mockery.

"I didn't say I'd actually do it. I'm just humanity's guilty dream." Petrov grinned, clicking his tongue. "You really think you'll pitch this to the Ministry? With that face? They'll look at you like a bowl of eel porridge exploded in the meeting room."

"That's why you'll present it for me."

"You bastard."

Kamarov smirked, exhaling a thin wisp of smoke into the cold air, where the fading sunlight pierced through the rubble's cracks. The wind stirred, scattering ash like history's overturned dust. He pointed north, where the horizon swallowed the gloomy fields.

"The Irkutsk Doctrine isn't about kissing ass. It's born of frustration—when you realize a victory doesn't end things. Every time we think we've killed the snake, we've only cut its tail."

"And the head rears up, spewing new extremism into the people we're trying to protect," Petrov added, his tone softer, tinged with bitterness.

"Exactly," Kamarov said slowly. "Irkutsk isn't just a place—it's a symbol of shifting thought. Instead of playing 'capture-hold-withdraw,' we build a sustainable security ecosystem step by step. Reconstruction, civil reforms, and rooting out the enemy's logistics." His voice hardened. "It's not about winning—it's about ensuring they can't rise again."

Petrov scratched his head. "You sound like you're reading a Ministry of Internal Affairs manifesto."

"If I were Minister, we'd have cleaner barracks toilets," Kamarov shrugged. "And maybe soldiers would study applied philosophy through asymmetric warfare."

"Not bad, huh?"

"Hmph. As long as you don't make me your assistant." Petrov nodded toward the dirt path. "Now what? Where to?"

"Check on everyone, then we're done. The villagers can handle the rest."

...

As they left the village, heading toward Monack's house at the forest's edge, Lise ran up, her eyes blazing with an indescribable resolve that startled them. Petrov stopped, asking gently:

"What's up? Remnants?"

Kamarov slapped his head like he was an idiot. "You moron, can't you think of anything else?"

"What else could it be?"

"Shut up, let me handle this." Kamarov stepped forward, forcing a cheerful expression despite reeking of sweat, intensified by the nearing midday sun. Ignoring it, he asked Lise, "What's the problem?"

"I want to learn..." Lise panted, not yet finishing her thought.

"Learn what? Magic?"

"No."

"Something else?" Petrov asked, skeptical. "Some kind of skill?"

"No!" she shouted, stunning them both. They couldn't believe her next words. "I want your strength."

Kamarov and Petrov scratched their heads, puzzled, exchanging awkward glances. The air grew tense. After catching her breath, Lise clarified:

"I... I want to be as strong as you. Physical strength—yes, that's it, the strength of muscles."

Kamarov's jaw dropped slightly, her request vague but not beyond his sharp mind. "Alright, Lise, don't you already have enough endurance? Marching dozens of kilometers without collapsing? And... how the hell do you still have nutrition for 'that area'?"

Petrov nearly choked, coughing as if he'd swallowed coal. "Wait, what? 'That area'?"

"You know," Kamarov shrugged, glancing below Lise's waist suggestively, "the part army doctors call essential biological fat in females."

"You filthy dog," Petrov swung, hitting Kamarov's back. "Hey, how old is she?"

Lise flushed but kept her voice steady. "I'm twenty-six, almost twenty-seven. And I'm completely serious."

"Damn, that big an age gap?" Kamarov was surprised. They'd never shared personal details due to battlefield security concerns. They'd met at some adventurers' guild—he couldn't recall where—but Lise's rebellious streak stuck with him. He'd forgotten to ask her age. Throughout their time together, she'd never resisted strongly, perhaps because...

'What was it?' he wondered.

He couldn't recall the crucial detail, but it felt important. Still, from then until now, Lise had been cooperative, a dedicated team member, especially when "called upon" in critical moments. She was either incredibly easygoing or hiding something they didn't know.

Kamarov couldn't conclude anything now and decided to assess her through future actions. He didn't dwell on what he might uncover, focusing instead on the present. The future was for the future.

"Alright, Lise, let's get serious," he said, crossing his arms. "You want strength. But do you understand what that really means?"

"Yes."

Her answer was swift, unwavering. Petrov glanced at Kamarov, as if asking, "Is she for real?"

Kamarov stared at Lise, like reading a blurry map, trying to discern passion from delusion. A breeze carried the scent of pine and dry grass, and in that moment, he realized: she wasn't joking.

"Fine," he nodded, dropping the mockery. "You want strength. Let me be clear: if you want muscles like a special forces soldier, what's the cost? Do you know each gram of muscle comes from vomiting, pain, broken bones, sleepless nights, and oxygen deprivation? Training in rain, crawling through neck-deep mud, waking with legs heavy as lead? You know that?"

"I know."

Petrov raised an eyebrow. "Know like people say 'I know,' or know because you've been through it?"

Lise didn't answer immediately, but her eyes stayed locked on Kamarov's. There was something in them—resilient, not the blind naivety of dreamers. It was the stubbornness of a scout surviving dead lands.

"Have you ever killed?" Petrov asked, no humor, no smile.

"Yes."

Both soldiers fell silent. Her answer carried neither pride nor remorse—just fact.

"Good," Kamarov exhaled, nodding slowly. "Then we can start."

"Start... what?"

"Training," he replied. "The first thing you'll learn isn't lifting weights or push-ups. It's pain. Failure. Limits. When your body screams to stop, you learn to ignore it. Muscles are secondary. Will is primary."

Lise swallowed, not from fear but from the weight of his words—mental, not physical. Part of her realized she'd stepped into something beyond "training," a realm for the mad or desperate.

But she didn't take it back. She nodded.

"Start tomorrow," Kamarov said, glancing at Petrov. "What time?"

"Earliest possible. Before dawn."

"No," Lise interjected, her voice hoarse with restraint. "Start today."

The soldiers exchanged looks—not doubt, but skepticism.

Kamarov glanced at Monack's house, not unwilling to train her but seeking the best approach. He sighed, shaking his head, and placed a hand on Lise's shoulder.

"Calm down..." he said, a hint of irony. "You're human, not steel. Even steel needs heating. We'll start tomorrow with exercises suited for you. Relax, kid."

Lise stayed silent, not objecting, though her face showed dissatisfaction—not from rejection but from an instinct urging her forward. A caged beast waiting for dawn to fight. She walked back to the house, preparing for tomorrow.

Petrov watched her, then shook his head, whispering to Kamarov:

"Lise has something... like the guys who came back from Chechnya. The kind who, without guidance, become heroes or devils."

"Not quite. I don't know exactly, but something's simmering... No, that's not right." Kamarov tapped his head, pondering. "It's not normal psychology, wanting to boost physical strength like that. Her current fitness is excellent for a healthy civilian but far weaker than us. Her muscles aren't bad, but not great either. Her sudden demand makes me suspicious."

Petrov picked up a small stone, twirling it absently—a habit when lost in thought. "Suspicious of what?"

Kamarov didn't answer immediately. He watched Lise's figure vanish behind the bushes on the path to the house. A crow's caw echoed from the forest, punctuating the tense silence. He squinted, speaking low, emotionless:

"Not suspicious like 'she's plotting.' Suspicious of her nature. Ever meet someone like this, Petrov? They live like they're running from something. Not enemies. Not memories. Themselves."

Petrov looked up, hesitating. "Not... not that I've noticed, or wasn't sharp enough to see."

"We'll have issues if we don't figure it out soon."

"Then why agree?"

"Training and solving problems are separate. Don't mix them."

Kamarov rolled his shoulders. "But it's likely psychological. I'm still guessing. If it's bad, we'll handle it. Not now."

"So we're playing trainers and shrinks?"

"I don't know, but maybe psychiatrists if we find something."