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.

_____

In the aftermath of the war, Reymen and Usugui found themselves trapped amidst the strife of warlords vying for control over fertile lands. As the last surviving dragon knights, they wandered through a realm sinking into an endless, unrelenting conflict.

"Damn these pesky goblins!" Reymen growled, kicking the corpse of a goblin he had just slain with his dagger. "Let's move, Usugui. We need to get out of this cursed place."

Usugui, gripping a short sword, had traded his dragon-riding armor for a patched cloak of beast hide and coarse cloth—suitable for blending into the forest and shielding against the scorching sun of the barren plains. His old dragon armor, once a symbol of honor and might, was now reduced to a few rusted, worn fragments used as shoulder and chest guards, heavy with the weight of a lost past.

"Wonder if that warlord up there has spotted us yet," Usugui murmured, stepping lightly over the bodies while scanning their surroundings.

"Who knows," Reymen replied. "Maybe they already have." He quickened his pace. The site they had just raided was a crude encampment of those loathsome creatures.

Reymen paid little mind to the goblins, more concerned about a troll or orc lunging out to tear them apart. It had been over two months since their defeat by the Russian forces—three fleets annihilated, along with their comrades in the 6th Air Battalion.

Supporting each other, they struggled to survive the relentless pursuit of the Russians. Becoming adventurers was a necessary choice; though it invited suspicion, it was better than capture.

Their daily tasks were simple, with many commissions easy enough to sustain them if they worked diligently. As former elite dragon knights, these jobs were child's play.

"Reymen," Usugui said, "we're late finishing this job. We won't have enough for the journey by the deadline."

Reymen grimaced at the remark, disliking such pessimism. Yet reality was stark: these tasks no longer sufficed to ensure survival in a land descending into chaos.

He loathed living subserviently, scraping coins for others, but couldn't ignore their dire need for funds to reach a safer destination.

"No matter," he said. "We'll find better work once we leave this area and reach Asrul in the north. There's a port, merchants, mercenary guilds—and most importantly, no Russians."

Usugui nodded, though doubt lingered in his heart. He knew Reymen hadn't fully accepted their defeat—not as warriors, but as bearers of an ideal. Their dragon knight order, once the pride of their nation, was now reduced to two weary shadows amidst the wreckage of war.

"I heard in Asrul they're recruiting former mercenaries for a rebellion in the west," Usugui said quietly, eyes fixed on the path. "The Russians may have withdrawn from that front. If we join at the right time..."

"No," Reymen cut him off. "No more wars. No rebellions, no ideals. We've lost everything—you, me, the sky. All that's left is... survival."

The air grew heavy. They walked on in silence, with only the howling wind and distant cries of wild birds echoing from the far-off forest. They sensed they were being watched—not by monsters, but by humans, or something worse.

As they skirted a hillside, a thin wisp of smoke appeared on the horizon. A human camp. Perhaps traders, perhaps refugees. Or maybe one of the ruthless mercenary bands that hunted surviving dragon knights to sell their whereabouts to the Russians or local warlords.

"Hold," Usugui signaled. "I'll circle up high to scout. You stay here and keep watch."

Reymen didn't object. He drew his long dagger, wiping off dried goblin blood, and retreated behind a charred tree. Gazing at the sky—no more dragons, no iron wings roaring through the clouds. Only gray clouds and the acrid scent of ash lingered after each Russian sweep. Unmanned Russian scout drones still patrolled the eastern cities. If spotted, they'd become targets instantly.

Soon, Usugui returned, visibly excited.

"It's a caravan, likely merchants," he said. "If we play it right, we might hitch a ride to the next town."

A good opportunity, Reymen thought, and perhaps a chance to earn coin as escorts, given their military background.

"Sounds solid. Let's approach them."

Reymen swiftly left his position, and the two hurried toward the rising smoke. A flicker of hope spurred Reymen to run faster, his breath ragged as if fleeing some unseen dread.

Before them stood an impressive caravan, bustling with people and flanked by a few mercenaries. Numerous cargo wagons stood out, their contents hidden, but the pungent smell of salted meat—briny and greasy—hinted at the merchants' trade.

Usugui trailed Reymen, eyeing a richly dressed woman, likely the caravan's leader. Such opulence—over ten sturdy wagons—spoke of immense wealth.

Before Usugui could react, Reymen spoke up: "Greetings, pardon our sudden appearance," he said. "We noticed your caravan transporting ample goods. Might we offer our services for work?"

The woman, without a word, flicked her hand. The surrounding guards drew their swords—not to attack, but to intimidate. Tension gripped the air around the caravan, dust swirling in the wind as it whistled past glinting steel.

Reymen tilted his head slightly, hand hovering near his dagger's hilt but not drawing it. He knew one wrong move could see them hacked to pieces and tossed into a ditch.

The woman, in her thirties, with a sharp face and eyes like razor blades, finally spoke, her voice soft yet cold as ice:

"Who are you? Where do you come from? And why should I trust two ragged wanderers in tattered armor?"

Reymen took a deep breath. His demeanor would decide their fate. He bowed slightly—not too low, but enough to show respect.

"We're former soldiers, no longer fighting for any lord or nation. We only seek to escort your caravan in exchange for a seat on a wagon and some provisions. Nothing more."

The woman narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing them. Usugui's patched cloak, Reymen's weathered armor, the unmistakable scars of old battlefields. But their eyes—they weren't those of common nomads or bandits. They were the eyes of men who had faced death countless times and lived.

A nearby mercenary, gripping a spear, snorted: "Former soldiers, eh? Just a pair of deserters, I bet. These types are full of tricks."

The woman didn't turn, only said sharply: "Shut up."

She stepped forward, her tall boots clacking heavily on the ground. Standing mere steps from Reymen, she locked eyes with him.

"Your name?"

"Reymen."

"And his?"

"Usugui."

Another pause. Reymen felt sweat bead on his neck. Facing this powerful merchant woman in such circumstances was more nerve-wracking than battling a horde of orcs. She was no ordinary figure.

Then, abruptly, she smiled—not warmly, but enough to ease the swords around them slightly.

"Fine. You may join the caravan—for now. But mark my words: touch my goods or harm my people, and I'll make your deaths last three days. Understood?"

"Understood."

Reymen replied curtly. Usugui nodded faintly.

She waved her hand. The mercenaries lowered their weapons, though their gazes remained wary. The woman turned and strode back to her wagon.

"You ride on the last wagon. And keep your mouths shut."

As the two quietly followed the caravan, Usugui whispered: "This caravan leader... she's no ordinary woman."

Reymen smirked faintly: "No, she isn't. But that's exactly why it's worth sticking with her. In Asrul, only the toughest survive this road."

A strange feeling stirred within him. It had been ages—since their dragon knight order shattered, since the sky burned under Russian missile barrages—that they'd had an ally, or at least a temporary refuge.

Yet he knew every deal came at a cost. And this woman—she wasn't the type to act out of kindness.

Hours later, as the caravan rolled north through scorched fields and sparse woods, Reymen and Usugui huddled in the corner of the last wagon. Beside them, several crates were draped in thick canvas.

Usugui peered through a gap in the cloth, eyes narrowing.

"Reymen... something's off. These crates aren't just salt or meat."

Reymen leaned closer. "What?"

"It's... looks like weapons. Military-grade crates."

Usugui's voice was barely a whisper, his eyes wide.

Reymen frowned, deep in thought. A wealthy caravan, heavily armed, heading north—carrying weapons? Something was very wrong.

He tightened his grip on his dagger.

"We might've just stepped into a new game, Usugui. And this one... could be deadlier than goblins or mercenaries."

He gazed into the distance, where the horizon blurred in the dust. The caravan rolled on, drawing them toward Asrul—a land where Reymen wasn't certain they'd survive.

The caravan allowed them to travel only as far as a fork leading to the main northern road. That's when Reymen decided not to continue.

"If they're hauling weapons, we'd best not get too involved," he told Usugui as they slipped away from the caravan at dusk.

"I agree. Those people didn't exactly warm to us," Usugui replied.

They turned south, back to the town where they'd taken the goblin-slaying job. A makeshift haven, but it still had shelter, a rundown tavern, a quest board, and enough coin for a meal.

After three grueling days, their weary steps carried them through a sparse forest to the low valley where the town lay. The late afternoon sun stretched across the parched grasslands.

In those three days, they'd battled beasts—from wargs to ambushing goblins, and worst of all, a pack of orcs backed by a massive troll. The exhaustion of their return was compounded by the unpredictable danger posed by that mysterious woman, compelling them to avoid further risks.

But as they neared the town, a few miles out, a strange sound began to hum in their ears.

Zzzzt zzzzt zzzzt...

It resembled no animal or insect they'd ever heard, though it echoed the buzz of mosquitoes—louder, sharper, and unnervingly grating. They glanced at the dim sky, spotting a small, circular object hovering, spinning tiny rotors. Unfamiliar technology, but both Reymen and Usugui knew instantly: it was Russian.

"Not a good sign," Reymen sighed, eyes tracking the odd device as it zipped past. "The Russians always bring trouble when they're near."

"No idea what it is, but that sound's enough to make my skin crawl," Usugui said, ducking closer to a bush.

Though they didn't fully grasp its nature, the presence of these strange devices and approaching soldiers weighed heavily on them.

They pressed on toward the town, the air now thick with vigilance.

As they drew closer, the sight shocked them.

In the main square, dozens of Russian soldiers in modern combat gear stood assembled, organized into squads around buildings and armored vehicles. Some locals gathered near a large mobile command table.

Reymen squinted, recognizing a woman—the caravan leader they'd met—engaged in a heated exchange with a Russian officer.

"Suspicious," Reymen whispered. "Her caravan might be aiding the Russians."

Usugui remained silent, his gaze anxious.

Beneath that overcast sky, they realized this town was no longer safe. The strange buzzing overhead, though they couldn't yet name it, only deepened their dread.

...

Inside a Ural-43206 truck, two Grusha UAV operators monitored their screens, where the Podlet-K1 radar had paused to prioritize scout drone deployment. Electronic sensors, including infrared cameras and omnidirectional audio detectors, ran at full capacity, feeding real-time intelligence to the recon team.

Their force comprised twelve trucks, split into three main groups, with their six tasked for reconnaissance and surveillance. Each truck carried small ZALA 421-08 UAVs for rapid target detection and tracking, plus a light machine gun for self-defense.

A technician nearby meticulously checked the truck's electronics, ensuring radar and sensors functioned reliably in the volatile battlefield.

The operators scanned the town's perimeter while their commander negotiated with the group they'd met earlier—a merchant caravan trafficking heavy cold weapons, primarily arming swords, longswords, and sabers, alongside other low-value arms ignored by most.

"Grusha-2's almost out of juice. Prep for return," the Mohawk-haired operator said, eyes glued to his screen, addressing his Undercut-haired teammate.

Undercut studied the display, spotting two figures in a small southwestern forest strip, raising his suspicions. He leaned toward Mohawk, pointing at the screen and lowering his voice:

"Zoom in there. Don't recall yet. Verify first."

Mohawk nodded, fingers darting across the controls. The infrared camera adjusted, sharpening the image. Two figures moved stealthily, clad in thin armor and cloaks—camouflage that couldn't fool the camera—and carrying various cold weapons.

"Not civilians," Mohawk observed, eyes narrowing. "Their movement... like trained scouts or hunters. But they're avoiding exposure—not wood-gathering types."

Undercut frowned, opening an internal comms channel:

"Vehicle 4, this is Vehicle 2. Two unidentified subjects at coordinates 36499824-23762534, in the small forest southwest of town. No hostile actions but moving tactically. Recommend passive tracking. Over."

Confirmation came swiftly.

"Roger, Vehicle 2. We'll pivot cameras that way. Hold position, no engagement unless clear hostility. Over."

Undercut turned to Mohawk: "Keep Grusha-2 on them for three more minutes. Tail them until Vehicle 4 picks up visuals. Then lower altitude and return before the battery dies."

Mohawk nodded, muttering: "Damn, 4% left... but it'll do."

The truck fell silent, save for the hum of cooling fans and the diesel generator's steady thrum. The faint smell of hot metal and burnt rubber wafted from the controls. On-screen, the two figures halted, crouching to observe their direction.

Under infrared, their postures clarified—one held compact military binoculars, scanning open areas, while the other spread a map or similar object on the ground.

Undercut cursed under his breath: "Definitely not random civilians. Planning something."

Mohawk shook his head, unblinking: "Organized. Looks like forward scouts... maybe mercenaries or semi-regular militia. But not Russian-aligned—no familiar insignias or gear."

He zoomed closer, focusing on shoulder patches and belts. A faint glint—perhaps a metal badge or emblem—flashed briefly. Mohawk snapped a still and fed it into the automated analysis system. A small circle appeared, cross-referencing with the database.

Undercut glanced at the battery timer—3%. He tightened his headset strap, ordering:

"Capture all their postures, then switch to passive recon. Let Grusha-2 tail them at safe altitude. When Vehicle 4 takes over, pull back immediately. Don't let them know they're being watched."

Mohawk's fingers danced like a pianist's, inputting commands rapidly. The screen displayed a series of stills—one figure pointing at the map, another raising binoculars toward the town.

Suddenly, Vehicle 4's signal crackled through the headset: "Vehicle 2, this is Vehicle 4. In position, capturing visuals from northwest. Cameras locked on subjects, initiating data cross-check."

Undercut exhaled softly: "Roger. Grusha-2 will disengage in 30 seconds. Over."

He turned to Mohawk: "Prep for UAV recovery. Take a straight path, hug the forest, avoid exposing the trajectory."

Mohawk smirked faintly: "Piece of cake. I've worn my fingers out on these tricks."

As the UAV veered, the analysis completed—a green notification flashed:

LOW PROBABILITY: Identity unconfirmed, likely tactical mercenaries, affiliation unknown.

Undercut muttered a curse. Things just got complicated. He hit a button, sending the data packet to the forward command, with a note:

Two suspicious subjects, pre-recon behavior, equipped and moving like mercenaries. Recommend strategic analysis priority.

Grusha-2 zipped toward the forest's edge, zigzagging to avoid detection. Inside the truck, silence reigned, broken only by the ticking clock and electric hum. Mohawk checked the battery—1% remaining.

Before the screen went dark, a final image showed someone approaching the two figures from behind, heightening their suspicions.

Undercut removed his headset, leaning back: "This... isn't just merchants peddling weapons for profit."

Mohawk nodded, his eyes cold: "Yeah. Someone's poking around our backyard."

The truck's air grew thick with tension—the prelude to a battlefield, whether under the quiet forest canopy or amidst the chaotic town beyond.

Undercut opened a private channel: "Command, this is Vehicle 2. New developments..."

...

Reymen and Usugui stood silently at the road's edge leading into town, staring at the gray-clad Russian soldiers in the square. The air felt choked by an invisible strain.

"It's like this town's caged in iron," Usugui whispered, eyes fixed on the disciplined soldiers, half-guarding, half-awaiting something.

Reymen frowned, pushing down the creeping fear. "We don't belong here anymore. If they spot us, who knows what they'll do."

He glanced at Usugui, voice low: "Feel the same as me? Those flying devices... they're not just standard recon. This is a sign of something bigger, a plan we can't predict."

Usugui nodded. "I've heard rumors from merchants and villagers. The Russians are tightening control over the region, consolidating power at any cost. But their methods... too brutal, too cold."

"And now we decide," Reymen said, turning to his comrade, eyes sharp. "We can keep playing low-tier adventurers, hunting weaklings for scraps. Or we stand up, figure out what's happening, and fight for this town's freedom."

Usugui scanned their surroundings, each step now weighed by unseen pressure. "I'm not afraid to die. I'm afraid of watching this place become hell under Russian hands."

"Then there's no turning back," Reymen said, pulling his hood higher to mask his face. "We need to get closer, eavesdrop on their plans. If possible, disrupt them from within."

The zzzzt zzzzt overhead droned on, a ceaseless warning. They exchanged a resolute glance and stepped into the town, enveloped by suspicion and peril.

Suddenly, the buzzing vanished, as if something had been lost. Reymen strained to hear it again, but instead, a new sound emerged—a relentless r-r-r-r ROAR ROAR ROAR, multiple sources, unmistakable.

...

Fifteen minutes later.

On the other side, under the fading sunset, three IMZ-Ural motorcycles tore through the terrain, racing toward their target, poised to hunt anything in sight.

"Those two are nearby, not far," the leader barked. "Spread out and encircle. I'll draw them in!" The radio crackled with two voices confirming the order. The three Russian bikes fanned out like predatory beasts, roaring across rocky ground, leaving swirling dust trails.

Reymen and Usugui continued observing the Russians from afar, unaware their position had been compromised.

Usugui studied the conversing Russians, noting their numbers didn't match the machinery they brought—something off for a nation known for caution.

"This doesn't feel right," Reymen said. "The buzzing's gone, but nothing about this is good."

"Any sudden change could spell unpredictable trouble," Usugui agreed, checking his side pouch.

From behind, an old man appeared, eyeing them like fools: "Spying like that, you'll be dead by Russian hands before you know what's happening."

Both jumped at the steely voice. They stumbled forward as the old man cackled mockingly.

"Didn't think Papaldia's dragon knights were such cowards," he roared with laughter. "Most of you were quiet, but you two stand out. Unique, I'd say?"

Usugui stared, unnerved. The man moved without sound, his presence barely disturbing the air—a chilling enigma.

"Who are you? Why are you here?" Reymen asked warily, unable to believe an old man could move so stealthily. He needed answers.

The old man stopped laughing, gazing at them distantly.

"Just a town blacksmith, here a month," he said humbly. "Out for a stroll with no work. Those adventurers are stingy, never buying useful gear. That's their folly."

His words didn't ease their unease but clarified his stance. They lowered their guard slightly, though suspicion lingered.

"What brought you here?" Usugui pressed.

"What?" the man snapped, as if offended. "Isn't it obvious? Two kids skulking around my place. If there's rats near my house, I clean them out."

Reymen's mind snapped to alertness. He sized up the man—short, silver hair tied in a ponytail, apron with tools at his waist—a dwarfish archetype.

Yet no hint of danger emanated from him. Still, the mockery in his eyes was unmistakable.

"Fine, I know what you're up to," he said. "The Russians can see your gear from afar but can't hear you. Follow me, and it'll be fine."

"Is that trustworthy?" Usugui asked, still skeptical, but the old man growled, indifferent to their choice.

"Up to you. Don't whine in hell that I didn't help when you're riddled with bullets."

They exchanged glances, then followed as he strode out of the forest.

As they emerged, a motorcycle screeched to a halt before them. A man in black, face hidden by sunglasses, dismounted, clutching an AKS-74U. He approached the old man.

"Those two behind you don't seem tied to your business, do they?" His deep, accented voice made them sweat, but he scratched his head, not pressing further. "I don't mean to disrupt, but rules are rules."

The old man snorted, unimpressed: "Those idiots are adventurers I hired to kill goblins. Check if you don't believe me. They're just gawking because it's their first time seeing your lot."

The Russian paused, locking eyes with the old man. No mercy for liars—that was clear in the gaze behind the shades.

"Alright, we don't hassle our partners," he said. "Got any new stock today?"

"Just some herbs, none of what you're after."

"Hah. Always so grumpy, no wonder you look like a crusty old codger," the Russian sneered, pulling a clinking coin pouch from his pocket. "Not much—13 Solidus, 35 Miliarense. Hope it's enough. Don't burn yourself out at that forge."

"Fine, fine," the old man snatched the pouch, face sour but cracking a grin. "Don't mock my family's traditional craft, taught by ancient artisans."

"Oh, really?" the Russian taunted. "Maybe I'll have you forge a new Shatun suit, because this won't cut it."

The old man fired back, mocking Russian pragmatism: "I don't get your 'utility,' or maybe my knowledge is limited. But you'll die to beasts all the same."

"Alright, call it a misunderstanding. I'm off, you old stink."

Reymen and Usugui stood frozen, witnessing the bizarre exchange. The air remained taut, despite the playful banter. Reymen gripped his dagger under his cloak, ready to act if things soured. Usugui shifted, eyes fixed on the Russian as he returned to his bike. The engine roared, kicking up a dust cloud as he sped off.

The blacksmith turned, his sharp gaze sweeping over them. "Still standing there? Follow me, unless you want the other bikes to nab you."

Reymen and Usugui exchanged a quick glance. They didn't trust the old man, but they had no room for hesitation. If he could shield them from Russian scrutiny, it was their only shot at surviving the night.

"Let's go," Reymen whispered, trailing the blacksmith. Usugui followed, hand near his short sword, poised for any threat.

They wound through a narrow path deeper into town, steering clear of the Russian-controlled square. The old man moved nimbly, his small frame exuding an odd confidence. Through tight alleys, the scent of forge smoke and charred coal mingled with damp stone. This small town clung to survival on the edge of war and chaos. The sunset faded, ushering in a long night of restless thoughts.

They halted before a weathered forge. The old man pushed open a creaking wooden door, gesturing them inside. Firelight from the hearth cast shadows on gray stone walls, illuminating swords, spears, and shields hanging haphazardly. A corner held piles of old dragon armor—identical to what Reymen and Usugui once wore—now rusted or warped by war's toll.

"Sit," the blacksmith said, pointing to two wooden chairs near the fire. He pulled up another, sitting opposite, his eyes never leaving them. "I know you're no ordinary adventurers. Dragon knights, right? Your movements, the way you hold your weapons... can't hide it."

Reymen frowned but didn't deny it. "What do you know about us?"

The old man chuckled, a sound like scraping metal. "I worked for Papaldia's dragon knights, long ago. Forged armor, sharpened swords, repaired dragon saddles. I recognized your battered armor instantly. No cloak can hide that glint of metal."

Usugui leaned forward, voice tense: "So what do you want? If you're planning to sell us out to the Russians, just say it."

The blacksmith waved off the notion as absurd. "Sell you out? Hah! If I wanted that, you'd be bound and tossed into one of their armored horseless wagons by now. No, I don't work for them. But I'm not fool enough to defy them openly. This town, this whole region, is their playground now. I'm just surviving, like you."

Reymen studied the old man, trying to gauge his truth. "Then why help us?"

The blacksmith shrugged, pulling a red-hot iron from the fire and hammering it rhythmically. The clanging echoed like a slow heartbeat. "I'm not helping. I just saw two dumb kids about to get themselves killed and pulled them back. Plus, I'm... curious. The last two dragon knights of Papaldia, wandering this wretched land, no ideals, no allies. What's your next move?"

Reymen and Usugui didn't answer immediately. The question cut deep, exposing a wound they'd tried to ignore. They were once a kingdom's pride, soaring through the skies on dragons, now reduced to fugitives scraping by on menial quests.

"We just want to survive," Reymen finally said, his voice low but firm. "No wars, no ideals. Just a safe place... if such a thing still exists."

The blacksmith stopped hammering, his gaze unreadable. "Survival, eh? Then you picked the wrong place. Asrul, where you're headed, isn't paradise. It's a cauldron of mercenaries, arms dealers, and backstabbers. The Russians are there too—not directly, but enough to stir chaos."

Usugui frowned. "So what do you suggest? Hide in the woods forever, living like wild beasts?"

The old man roared with laughter, genuine this time. "No, kid. I'm not saying hide. But if you want to live, be smarter. You've got skills, experience. Don't waste them on cheap goblin hunts. If you're set on Asrul, find the right people, the right faction. And above all, don't let the Russians catch you."

Reymen clenched his fists, a mix of frustration and resolve rising. "What do you know about the merchants we met? That woman... she's trading weapons, isn't she?"

The blacksmith nodded, a glint in his eye. "Aye. That's Illyana, one of the most powerful traders in these parts. Not just salted meat or cloth—weapons, explosives, even dragon scales from your fallen beasts. But Illyana doesn't work alone. She's tied to many factions, including the Russians. Don't trust her, but don't cross her. Not yet."

"So what's she doing here, dealing with the Russians?" Usugui asked, suspicion thick in his voice.

The blacksmith shrugged. "Who knows? Selling arms, buying intel—or both. But I'd bet she doesn't like the Russians. They force her to work with them, but Illyana's not one to bow easily. If you want a shot in Asrul, she could be your key. Or your death trap."

Reymen stood, approaching the fire, staring into its red glow. "So we've no better options, have we? Risk it with Illyana or keep running."

The blacksmith smirked. "Exactly. But here's free advice: if you play this game with Illyana or the Russians, keep a dagger ready behind your back. And don't let them know you were dragon knights. That title's a curse now, not glory."

Reymen and Usugui sat in the forge, firelight flickering across their weathered faces, casting shadows of men who were once symbols of power, now mere wanderers. The blacksmith's words shattered their faint hope of a simple escape. This town, Asrul, or anywhere else offered no peace. All were chessboards where every move risked death.

The blacksmith resumed hammering, each strike steady like a heart of iron. "I don't know if you've got the guts to face what's ahead," he said, eyes on his work. "But one thing you need to understand: those you call Russians... aren't exactly Russians."

Reymen and Usugui snapped their heads up, eyes sharpening. "What do you mean?" Reymen asked, tension creeping into his voice.

The blacksmith set down the glowing iron, turning to them. His aged eyes gleamed with uncanny sharpness, as if he'd unraveled the land's secrets. "Those black-clad men, riding bikes, flying those buzzing iron wasps... they're not regular Russian troops. They're mercenaries. Hired dogs working for someone—maybe Russia, maybe another power. But I'd wager they don't bear the official army's insignia. They operate independently, ruthless, bound only by coin."

Usugui leaned forward, hand tightening on his sword. "Mercenaries? But they use Russian tech—those buzzing things, armored vehicles, guns. How do they have that without Russian backing?"

The blacksmith let out a dry laugh, like metal on stone. "Kid, the Russians aren't called 'Northern Demons' for nothing. We know next to nothing about them, and that ignorance is their greatest weapon. These men could be ex-Russian soldiers, deserters, or outcasts. Or trained by Russia but now serving whoever pays more—Illyana, a local warlord, or some outside force we don't yet know."

Reymen frowned, piecing together the fragments. "So you're saying they're not official Russians but still serve Russian interests? Or are they just opportunists profiting from the war?"

"Could be both," the blacksmith replied, shrugging. "Point is, trust no one here. Not Illyana, not these mercenaries, and definitely not the townsfolk. Half of them are bribed or coerced into being eyes and ears for those dogs. You stepped into this town, you put yourselves in their sights."

The forge's air grew stifling, despite the steady fire. Reymen felt the weight of each word like a stone on his shoulders. Usugui, though calm, couldn't hide his anxious gaze.

"So what do we do?" Usugui asked, voice low but resolute. "If this town's a trap and Asrul's no safer, where do we go? Keep running forever?"

The blacksmith's eyes glinted—not with pity, but with a mix of curiosity and amusement. "Running's no way to live, kid. You're dragon knights, once soaring the skies, striking fear into foes. Now you want to scurry like rats in the dark? Or do you want to reclaim something of yourselves?"

Reymen shot to his feet, voice icy: "Don't talk of glory or honor. That died with our order. You think we don't want to fight? We fought, and we lost. The sky's theirs now, not ours. We've nothing left but ourselves."

The blacksmith didn't flinch at Reymen's anger. He only smirked, as if expecting it. "Lost? Maybe. But you're still breathing. And that means you've got a chance. I'm not saying grab a sword and charge the mercenaries. I'm saying be smarter. Find out who's behind them, who's paying them. Find their weakness. And if you get a shot, strike—not for glory, but because you deserve better than living like rats."

Reymen fell silent, staring into the fire. The old man's words struck a buried chord he'd tried to suppress since their order's fall. Usugui nodded faintly, agreeing despite lingering doubts.

"What do you know about these mercenaries?" Reymen asked, his tone softer. "If they're not regular Russians, who are they? Who's pulling their strings?"

The blacksmith rose, moving to a dusty wooden chest in the corner. He pulled out a yellowed parchment scroll and spread it on the table—a rough map of the region, marked with scrawled symbols for towns, paths, and red-circled zones.

"I've no solid proof," he said, pointing at the map. "But I've listened, watched. These mercenaries work in small, mobile groups. They use a wild array of strange weapons—guns, those buzzing wasps, and what your Papaldian prisoners called 'iron turtles'—but I've never seen a clear commander. I once saw one wearing an odd insignia, not Russian, though it mimicked their flag: same colors, a double-headed eagle, but one head dying, with a motto-like phrase:

Preserve the legacy, expand the influence; For the Empire, for the Homeland.

That makes them often mistaken for Russian forces, so they face little resistance—they're called RIM. There's another group, too—Wagner Group, tied to Russia but at odds with RIM. I don't know much about Wagner, but from what I've seen, RIM serves a massive trade guild called Arkonis, while Wagner's directly backed by Russia. Both are dangerous, operating in shadows, stopping at nothing to achieve their goals. Wagner, with Russia's direct support, is known for brutal feats, using advanced tech and vast resources to enforce power. Arkonis, less spoken of, is like a venomous snake, manipulating from afar through coin, intel, and shady deals. RIM, Arkonis's enforcers, seem to act for their own gain, loyal only to Solidus or whatever buys allegiance."

Usugui pointed to a red circle near Asrul. "What's this?"

The blacksmith frowned. "A base. Not sure whose, but I've heard it's a mercenary hub. Could be an arms cache or transit point. If you want truth, start there. But I warn you: go there, and you won't leave without bloodshed."

Reymen studied the map, his mind racing with choices. Keep fleeing, surviving on meager quests? Or dive into this deadly game, where enemies weren't just mercenaries but the powers behind them? He knew neither path allowed a return to their old lives.

"You know too much for a mere blacksmith," Reymen said, eyes probing. "Who are you, really?"

The old man laughed heartily, dripping with mockery. "Me? Just an old fool who loves hammering iron, kid. But I've lived long enough to see your kind—those who stood at the peak, then fell to the abyss. I don't care for ideals or glory. I just want you to survive, because you're the last remnants of the dragon knights. And I hate seeing beautiful things destroyed."

He stood, pointing to the door. "Now go. Dawn's coming, and the mercenaries will return. If you're set on Asrul, leave now. But heed me: trust no one, and always keep a dagger at your back."

Reymen and Usugui rose, silent. They stepped out of the forge as faint dawn light broke on the horizon. The UAVs' buzzing had ceased, but distant motorcycle roars lingered, a reminder they were hunted.

As they followed a path out of town, Usugui whispered: "Think we should trust that old man?"

Reymen didn't answer immediately, gazing north—once their beacon of hope. Now, clarity dawned: to survive and avoid despair's abyss, they needed a new hope to defy the Russians.

"I've got an idea, but you won't like it," Reymen said, leaning close to Usugui, sharing his plan as dawn's light grew.

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Au: I would appreciate any feedback on the content. Please feel free to ask any questions related to the story.