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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"Every machine, even the mighty Anternes superplanes that have gone down in history as defining an era, will eventually grow obsolete after a few decades by our human standards. And when that time comes, will the entity truly at the top of the food chain not have parts that rot, like components gone faulty?"

— Excerpt from the diary of an anonymous factory worker.

...

Victory is undeniable for many, but when viewed from another perspective, it is not a victory in the eyes of those who see war differently.

The final battle—Estaurant—was the bloodiest in Russia's modern history since its conflicts with the United States and the West. The chaos of the world has accustomed Russians to this stark reality. The old world held far more threats than the people of this one.

Russia's superiority is indisputable, but does that strength truly secure a real victory? Or does it merely delay the impending chaos? The presence of numerous civilians has drawn heavy criticism toward the military, with accusations that it has failed to adhere to old international human rights conventions.

Despite the government's efforts to exonerate the military, these measures have proven ineffective against anti-war factions, human rights organizations, and even a segment of the domestic population—those who have begun to question the true meaning of the war. They no longer view victory through the lens of glory but through images of devastation, the cries of children separated from their mothers, and the fear etched in the eyes of refugees.

In Estaurant, every street could tell a story. Some Russian units were hailed as heroes in official reports, yet simultaneously condemned on foreign media channels for allegedly using "disproportionate force." On the ground, there was no clear line between justice and injustice—only survival and political pressure remained.

For many Russians who fought there, they brought back glory—but also haunting memories. The veterans of Estaurant spoke little of the battle. They remained silent, but their eyes were filled with questions: Have we truly done the right thing?

Victory, in this context, is an empty word. It does not resound like the triumphant anthems of old. It lacks a musical score, no fireworks. It is the deafening explosion in the dead of night, the silence of crumbled buildings, the bowed head of a soldier before a comrade's grave.

Russia has won—but whose victory is it? For what purpose? And was it truly necessary to pay the price in blood on both sides?

This skepticism seems to be spreading. Not like a loud pandemic, but like a quiet disease festering in the soul of a nation accustomed to suffering, yet never ceasing to hope for something better.

...

Federal Special Zone

Reporters have arrived in the newly annexed territory of the Federation—a land incorporated after a historic, earth-shaking event. Among them was Austinov, a seasoned journalist known for his incisive writing. Despite his talent, he did not hide his skepticism and criticism toward the authorities.

"They traded over a thousand soldiers' lives and hundreds of thousands from this world," Austinov said, casting a disdainful glance at the soldiers celebrating around a campfire. "And they're still joyful about that victory? Unbelievable."

Leaning against a pickup truck, he gazed at the wealth of material soon to be confiscated by the state, away from those seeking the truth.

"Whining won't do you any good," someone approached. It was Karov, a colleague from Kazan. "Keep your mouth shut, or aren't you afraid of ending up like those before you?"

"The 'Listen to the People, Act for the People' campaign must be invisible, huh?" Austinov quipped sarcastically, reaching into the passenger seat and tossing a can of Coca-Cola to Karov. "Don't you know how disappointed I am that the government launched a war right when the crisis broke out?"

"Maybe it was for survival?"

"Survival for an unjust cause, or just imperialism?" Austinov countered. "I still believe in MIR's democratic revolution."

"Oh, spare me," Karov groaned, covering his ears. "Don't tell me you believe in those terrorists. Haven't their suicide bombings proven they're terrorists?"

"Nothing the government says is trustworthy," Austinov asserted, his face as clear as day. "What's wrong with openly opposing them?"

"Well, the Siberian prisons are waiting for you. Just don't drag me along when you're there," Karov said, taking a sip of the Coca-Cola and exhaling with satisfaction. "I won't interfere with your reporting, but don't let your conviction for what you think is right ruin you—or drag others down with you."

"Got it," Austinov replied. "This Papaldia war exposes so many issues we need to confront ourselves."

"Like what?"

"Morality, Karov," Austinov said. "This war, along with the soldiers' Telegram videos, has shown me the full picture of a war that's both just and unjust. Sounds contradictory, doesn't it?"

Austinov began to explain. "Basically, the government claims this is a war fulfilling our CSTO obligations to an attacked ally, but throughout the process, not a single ally's military was present—odd, right? And despite opposition from the KPRF or SR's media campaigns, the LDPR enthusiastically supports this war as a means of territorial expansion."

"Seriously?" Karov was surprised, clearly unaware of such news. Military vehicles passed by them—troops returning from the battlefield to hand over to the incoming garrison. The sight made Karov pensive, reflecting on recent events.

Austinov continued. "Isn't it obvious? They're only concerned with their own interests—a sinister agenda."

"Hegemony?"

"Exactly," Austinov shook his head, spreading his arms in a gesture of helplessness. "It's been clear since the SEAMA trade agreement, hasn't it? Opposing China but still visiting Beijing; opposing the West but investing in the California irrigation project before their civil war broke out. It's a shame I won't get to vacation in Arizona anymore, and now we won't see peaceful days like before," Austinov sighed, his voice softening, as if speaking to himself more than to Karov. "Everything's changed, Karov. This war isn't just about Estaurant or Papaldia. It's about redefining who we are, and I'm not sure if the price we're paying is worth it."

Karov fell silent, his gaze following the military convoy disappearing into the dust. He took another sip of Coca-Cola, then said slowly, "You know, I'm not one for arguing about politics or morality. But I agree with you on one thing: this war leaves too many questions. And I fear those questions won't have clear answers."

Austinov gave a faint smile, but it couldn't hide the bitterness. "You're right. But the problem is, when there are no answers, people often choose to believe what's easiest. The government says this is victory, glory, defending the homeland—and that's enough for many to close their eyes and accept it. But I can't, Karov. I can't look at photos of dead children in the rubble and tell myself it's 'the price of peace.'"

Karov shrugged, his eyes betraying unease. "So what are you going to do? Write an article openly criticizing the government? You know the consequences. They won't let you off, especially at a time like this."

"I know," Austinov nodded, his voice resolute. "But if we all choose silence, who will speak for those who've been lost? Who will ask questions when the world only wants to cheer for victory? I'm no hero, Karov, but I'm a journalist. And if I don't do my job, I'm no different from those who stand by and applaud."

Karov shook his head, a mix of admiration and concern in his expression. "You're stubborn. But be careful. Siberia's cold, and I don't want to visit you in a prison camp."

Austinov laughed, the first genuine laugh in their conversation, carrying a hint of relief. "Don't worry, I'm not heading there yet. But I'll write, Karov. I'll write about what I see, what I hear, and what I believe is the truth. It might not change anything, but at least I won't live with the regret of staying silent."

The two men stood there, in the newly annexed land, where the air still carried the acrid smell of gunpowder and untold stories. In the distance, the laughter of soldiers around the campfire mingled with the cold wind blowing through this vibrant yet scarred land. But for Austinov, those sounds only amplified the silence—the silence of unanswered questions, unhealed wounds, and a nation standing at a crossroads in its own history.

He turned to Karov, his gaze sharp but tinged with fatigue. "Have you ever wondered, Karov? If this victory isn't ours, isn't the people's, then whose is it?"

Karov didn't answer immediately. He looked down at his empty Coca-Cola can, then up at the gray sky, where heavy clouds seemed to weigh down the world. "I don't know," he finally said, his voice low. "But if you find the answer, let me know. I want to understand too."

Austinov nodded, saying nothing more. He knew the search for truth would not be easy, and he might pay a price. But in that moment, amidst the war-torn land, he felt a rare clarity: no matter the cost, he would not stop. Not for glory, not for fame, but for the stories that needed to be told and the voices that needed to be heard.

...

Russian Military Camp

The crackling of the campfire mingled with the cheers of celebration. Tables were laden with food—traditional dishes alongside modern fare, enjoyed by every soldier.

In the flickering glow of the fire, Russian soldiers gathered, raising glasses of vodka and singing victory songs. Laughter echoed, intertwined with tales of bravery, near-death moments, and feats they believed would be etched into history. But not everyone joined the revelry. In a quiet corner, a group of young soldiers sat silently, their eyes distant, as if they were somewhere far away, not amidst the celebration.

"Vareniki or Makarony po-flotski, Ivan?" another soldier approached. Rusakov stepped forward, holding two plates for his comrade to choose. "Surviving a bizarre war like this isn't easy. Enjoy this moment of peace—we're not out of the war's smoke yet."

Ivan took the vareniki, stuffing pieces into his mouth. His weary eyes watched the soldiers who had fought in Syria and defended Damascus. These battle-hardened men, survivors of brutal conflicts in a chaotic world. The world seemed engulfed in senseless civil wars that Ivan could no longer comprehend.

"This meaningless war is awful," he said. "Guess how many we lost in this four-month conflict?"

"No idea," Rusakov replied, sitting beside Ivan. "But I know I'm about to live like a Japanese anime character—smelling freedom." He nudged Ivan's shoulder with his elbow.

"Come on, Ivan, you won't survive if you keep thinking about death. Why not ask why our ancestors stood firm against the Nazis?" he continued, posing the question but answering it himself. "Because they didn't think about death. They thought about what they'd lose if they didn't fight for victory—not fear of death, but fear of losing everything. If death could bring peace to their loved ones, they'd accept it. We all know that."

"As if that makes reality less brutal," Ivan muttered.

"Why not? Who writes poetry about the horrors of war when their country's at war?" Rusakov insisted, twirling spaghetti onto his fork and chewing noisily, much to Ivan's annoyance. "Besides, in war... embracing what must happen makes it easier."

"Not for me," Ivan growled, glaring at Rusakov. "We face countless issues, and we have to file reports just to get them resolved. Especially artillery shells—I'm in the artillery unit. Every time we run out, we wait forever for resupply, when they could've managed it multiple times in the same timeframe with some effort."

Another soldier nearby—Monek—sat quietly, nodding in agreement. "Exactly. We at the mortar positions face the same issue. The warehouses in Harachirst are stocked with shells, yet the frontlines are short. Ridiculous."

"You think the command doesn't know how much we need them?" Ivan asked.

"They might not, or they just think, 'A modern army like ours doesn't need to fear a bunch from the 19th century,'" Ivan said bitterly, crushing a piece of bread and shoving it into his mouth. He wiped his hands, grabbed a water bottle, and took a big gulp. "Facing fireballs and suicide chargers, we're supposed to have overwhelming superiority, right?"

Ivan continued, his tone serious. "We've suffered so many losses without showcasing any of the technological might from two world wars. Think about it—we came here to retaliate for Papaldia's attack on Tajikistan, then we claimed to be liberators, toppling the Papaldia Empire and ushering in a militaristic era. Is that really the right thing?"

Rusakov shook his head. "No war comes without a cost. Whatever the government's goals are, they'll either tell us or the results will speak for themselves. Meaningless or not, this war benefits us for now. I graduated law school, you know—I'm not afraid to debate anyone on this, especially politics."

"Politically, this war's like a showcase for the country. Nothing special about it. Other nations see our easy victory and naturally grow wary. Meanwhile, the government keeps building diplomatic ties to set the stage for the future."

"For what?"

"For infiltrating every corner of every nation. Haven't you seen how capitalist corporations penetrate our domestic markets?" Rusakov said sardonically, looking at Ivan. "Every second you think otherwise, we see the opposite."

Ivan stared at Rusakov, setting his empty plate aside. But Rusakov was firm—everything had its undeniable reason, no matter how ugly. War revealed the true value of people out there.

It tugged at Ivan's heart, powerless against the schemes of the elite who had ruled Russia for decades. Vladimir Putin was a hero of modern Russia but also a cold, decisive figure in the eyes of countless Russians. Many feared the regime, seeking freedom in more progressive worlds, escaping nightmares anyone could see.

But now, after that historic event, millions of compatriots abroad had returned to the sacred motherland, yet not all outcomes were positive. Fear began to envelop those millions, yet almost no one acknowledged their existence at the dawn of a world that wouldn't accept them as ordinary people.

Ivan recalled marching through a bustling town, where locals looked at them like divine armies, complying with every command from a leader he believed was unjust. They promised not to plunder indoors, and they didn't. But outside, everything usable was taken to the fullest. To put it bluntly, they were little better than principled bandits.

Monek didn't stay silent for long, diving deeper into the conversation. "Why not talk about something else?" he suggested, scooting closer to Ivan. "Like the locals here? Like what we know from pop culture."

"Right, almost every creature from web novels is here," Rusakov chuckled. Other soldiers glanced their way, but no one paid much mind. "I love Tolkien's world—its history, characters, vibrant epic tales. They create the exquisite beauty of a fantasy world."

"What's that got to do with our topic?"

"Come on," Rusakov teased Ivan. "I thought you had a colorful soul. Just black, white, or gray, huh? Shame I'm colorblind—too many colors."

Ivan gave a skeptical look, loosening his grip to retort, but Monek interrupted. "So, in the eyes of a bully, it's that beautiful?"

Rusakov laughed. "I'm not denying it. Bullying's how the military works."

Ivan shot him a disdainful glance, hating the toxic culture people thought forged iron soldiers. How the Steel Was Tempered had created generations enduring undeserved hardships—a betrayal disguised as ideology.

"I won't stay in the army to suffer for duty," Ivan declared. Rusakov's mocking look irritated him, but it didn't stop his next words. "That's why Orlov is more respectable than he seems."

Rusakov's face darkened, his eyes narrowing, no trace of his earlier friendliness. A sudden gust of wind passed through, the air seeming to freeze, though it burned hotter by the moment. His voice was cold, like a judge's verdict.

"Swear on my ancestors, if I hear any praise for that traitorous terrorist scum—this knife will be in your guts." Rusakov's face loomed close to Ivan's. Monek fell silent, not defending Ivan's words. Fortunately, almost no one else overheard the young soldier's outburst.

Rusakov dropped his jovial facade, his expression colder than ever. Ivan was momentarily stunned but held his ground. "Shut up!" he snapped, grimacing at Rusakov's attitude. "I'm not here to bow to any lies!"

"You!?" Rusakov roared, stomping on Ivan, knocking him back. Before Ivan could react, Rusakov kicked him in the face. Blood streamed from Ivan's nose, but Rusakov's brutality didn't stop. "Let me tell you, you dog! Scum like Orlov only bring chaos and betrayal! You think praising a terrorist shows conviction? You're insulting everyone who died for this country!" Rusakov's voice echoed in the quiet corner of the camp, drawing curious glances from afar. He grabbed Ivan's collar, yanking him up, eyes blazing with fury.

Ivan, despite the pain and blood, refused to yield. He shoved Rusakov back, standing tall, eyes burning with anger. "This country? What country, Rusakov? One built on civilian blood? One where the regime silences truth and makes us die for lies? Orlov may be a terrorist to you, but at least he dared to stand against this rotting system!"

Monek, alarmed, stepped in. "Stop it, both of you! Want the whole camp to hear? Want to end up in the brig?" He pushed Rusakov away from Ivan, trying to defuse the situation, but their glares could've killed.

Rusakov, panting, pointed at Ivan. "You're not fit to be a soldier, Ivan. You're a traitor, like Orlov. Mention his name again, and I swear, it won't just be a bloody nose."

Ivan wiped the blood from his face, smirking bitterly. "Threaten me? Go ahead, Rusakov. But you can't silence me, just like the regime can't silence everyone asking questions. This war isn't glory or victory. It's a bloody farce, and you know it!"

Rusakov's rage flared. "That Western 'democracy' killed my grandfather! He died in the 'Black October,' betrayed by that bastard Boris Yeltsin, selling his purpose—those noble medals—for nothing, dying to preserve the last values only to see their dark side, you!"

The air in the camp corner grew stifling, as if the surrounding celebration had been swallowed by a void. Rusakov's words echoed not just personal anger but the pain of a scarred history, of generations sacrificed and forgotten. Ivan, still standing, felt a chill down his spine. He knew he'd crossed a dangerous line—not just with Rusakov, but with values many in the camp, and even Russia, held sacred.

Monek, tense, stepped between them, arms outstretched like an invisible wall. "Enough!" he shouted, angry and worried. "You two want to fight? Take it to the fields, don't drag the camp into this mess!" He turned to Rusakov, eyes hard. "And you, Rusakov, calm down. Beating a comrade like this? If the commanders see, you're both done."

Rusakov took a deep breath, restraining his anger. He unclenched his fist, but his gaze remained icy, fixed on Ivan. "Monek, I don't want trouble. But this guy..." He pointed at Ivan, voice trembling with restraint. "He dares mention Orlov, comparing that traitorous filth to what we're doing. I can't accept that."

Ivan, wiping the last of the blood from his lip, smirked without joy. "You call me a traitor, Rusakov? Then what about those who died in Estaurant, the civilians caught in the crossfire? Did they die for your 'glory'? For your grandfather's medals? Or for a war even you don't fully understand?"

Rusakov lunged again, but Monek blocked him, pushing hard against his chest. "I said enough, Rusakov! Sit down, or I'll call the guards!" Monek turned to Ivan, equally stern. "And you, Ivan, you know talking like this here is digging your own grave. Want to debate? Want to change the world? Wait till you're out of the army to play hero."

Ivan didn't reply, only looked at Monek, then at Rusakov, still seething. He knew Monek was right—this wasn't the place or time to continue. But the fire in him wouldn't die. Images from Estaurant, stories of ravaged towns, terrified civilian eyes—played like a slow-motion film in his mind, reminding him this war wasn't as simple as TV speeches claimed.

"Fine," Ivan finally said, voice low but firm. "I'll stop talking. But Rusakov, you can beat me, threaten me, but you can't change the truth. And the truth is, this war is turning us into what we once despised."

Rusakov didn't respond. He turned away, heading back to the campfire where laughter and songs continued as if nothing happened. But his shoulders slumped slightly, as if Ivan's words, though he wouldn't admit it, had struck a hidden chord.

Monek sighed, patting Ivan's shoulder. "You're brave but foolish. Why do you keep poking the hornet's nest? This isn't the place to be a revolutionary."

Ivan shrugged, sitting on the ground, eyes fixed on the distant figures in the firelight. "Maybe you're right, Monek. But if we all stay silent, who'll speak for those who can't? Who'll ask questions when the world just wants to celebrate?"

Monek shook his head, unsure whether to admire or worry for his comrade. "Keep this up, and you'll bring trouble on yourself. I won't stop you, but I hope when you find answers to those questions, you're still alive to share them."

Ivan didn't reply. He stared at the campfire, its dancing flames illuminating proud yet scarred faces. In that moment, he felt lonelier than ever—not because of Rusakov's attack or Monek's warning, but because he knew the path he'd chosen would have few companions.

...

Federal Special Zone, Two Days Later

Austinov sat in a small, makeshift café set up for reporters and logistics staff. The space was simple—just wooden tables and tarps shielding against sun and wind—but it was a rare haven from the chaos of the newly annexed land. Before him was an old laptop, its screen displaying a draft he'd worked on all night. The title was concise yet sharp: Victory or Catastrophe? The Truth from Estaurant and Papaldia.

He sipped bitter coffee, eyes scanning each line. His article didn't just recount what he'd seen—ruined streets, refugee stories, human rights violation allegations—but posed questions he knew would unsettle many. Why did Russia act alone without CSTO allies? Was the war's goal truly to protect an ally, or merely a pretext for territorial expansion? And most crucially, what was the cost of this "victory" when the world looked at Russia with suspicion and outrage?

A figure appeared beside him, interrupting his thoughts. It was Karov, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern. "Still buried in that article?" Karov asked, sitting across from him. "You really planning to send this to the editor? I bet it won't pass censorship."

Austinov gave a wry smile, closing the laptop. "If I feared censorship, I wouldn't be a journalist. You're right, though—this might never get published in Russia. But the world outside... they need to know the truth."

Karov frowned, shaking his head. "You know the consequences, Austinov. The government doesn't like people like you—digging up the truth. You could lose your job, your freedom, even your life. Is it worth it?"

Austinov met Karov's gaze, unwavering. "You think I'm doing this for fame? For money? I'm doing it for those without a voice, Karov. For the kids in Estaurant, for soldiers like Ivan I met yesterday, wondering if they're fighting for the right thing. If I don't write, who will?"

Karov fell silent, looking away. He knew Austinov was right, but he also knew the cost of truth in a country like Russia. "Just be careful," he said finally, voice low. "You're a great journalist, but this world isn't kind to people like you."

Austinov nodded but didn't reply. He opened his laptop, resuming his typing, each keystroke a testament to his resolve. Outside, the newly annexed land stirred with chaos and hope. Untold stories awaited, and Austinov knew that, no matter the danger, he wouldn't give up.

...

In another place, in a dimly lit room with flickering light, a group sat around a long table. Piles of documents, satellite photos, and a large screen displaying a map of the Papaldia region lay before them. A middle-aged man with a stern face and piercing eyes spoke, his voice low but commanding.

"We've achieved phase one," he said, pointing at the map. "Papaldia has fallen, and the special zone is under control. But domestic public opinion is becoming a problem. Human rights groups, articles like Austinov's—they're creating significant pressure."

A younger man in a crisp military uniform spoke up. "We can handle Austinov. An accident, a slander charge—it's not hard to silence a journalist."

The older man shook his head. "It's not that simple. Austinov isn't the only issue. He's part of a wave—people questioning, no longer buying the 'victory' narrative we've built. If we want to maintain control, we need a new story. One that convinces even the elites that our actions were necessary."

"The overseas compatriots will pose a slight problem, but they'll eventually comply," the younger man continued. "We've weathered impacts from the U.S. before and stood firm while they didn't. Use our aligned journalists as a counterweight, combine that with traditional media and public support, and I believe we can stabilize the country for the next phase under that pressure."

The room fell silent, their eyes meeting, no one speaking, but all understanding what lay ahead.