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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The gentle morning light bathed the sweat-drenched, weary faces of the Voro-12 members, still marked by the remnants of yesterday's raid by rogue stragglers. Kamarov and Petrov were disposing of the corpses. The wooden or mud-plastered houses with thatched roofs evoked images of impoverished medieval European villages. Only a few homes, built with tiles or slate, hinted at past wealth—perhaps from a local gentry or a plantation tied to the old regime. Yet, the war had spared no distinctions. Everything was either burned to ashes or plundered, leaving the air thick with the stench of ash, blood, and urine.

Petrov grimaced, spitting onto a pile of smoldering debris.

"Damn dogs," he muttered, tossing the body of a man in tattered armor onto a cart. "These bastards thought a few rusty plates would make them knights?"

Kamarov didn't respond. He bent down to pick up a dented helmet, split by an axe from top to bottom.

"He didn't die instantly," he said, his voice low. "There's a blood trail... he must've dragged himself to the fence before collapsing."

A brief silence followed. The early morning breeze rustled the thatched roofs, carrying the damp scent of the nearby forest—earth, rotting moss, and something else, like old blood.

"Surprising that Papaldia still uses this kind of armor," Petrov said, glancing at Kamarov. "And they didn't try to gut you?"

"Spare me. Two Kamars wouldn't pierce that," Kamarov smirked, not looking at Petrov as he brushed the blood-stained armor in his hand, as if weighing its scrap value. "They're not dumb enough to charge when a Dragunov's aimed at their forehead. Armor like this against a 7.62x54mm round? It's a cracked skull waiting to happen."

He tossed the metal piece to the ground, the clank echoing sharply.

Petrov stepped back, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. His gaze lingered on a pile of rubble, long since cooled from its fiery end—a family's home reduced to ash. A charred doll lay abandoned on the blackened ground.

"I wonder if the villagers even want to stay here anymore..." he said, his voice softening.

"No chance."

Kamarov's reply was blunt, not cruel but forged in the cold reality of countless sweeps.

The wind kept blowing, scattering ashes like restless spirits. Far off in the forest, a branch snapped, but neither man turned to look. If it was a wild animal, it wouldn't dare approach the stench of blood and gunpowder. If it was human... they were either already dead or waiting to die.

"This world has no place for the weak," Petrov muttered, as if speaking to himself, then stretched, his joints cracking. "So, any orders this time, or are we just cleaning up corpses again?"

Kamarov looked up at the sky, where pale golden sunlight slanted through thinning smoke, painting a breathtaking scene—if one could ignore the reek of death and desolation. He answered after a long breath.

"The captain says we stay two more days. Help the villagers, clear the rubble, give Lise time with her father before we move. So... we're stuck."

Petrov hissed through his teeth, clearly displeased.

"Great. Sleeping with rats and ghosts. Perfect."

"Better than marching into that cursed forest," Kamarov nodded toward the dark, hellish tree line on the horizon. "All those whispers... creepy enough to make me never want to play around in there again."

Petrov snorted, as if trying to expel the stench of their reality. He pulled his scarf over half his face, eyes still fixed on the forest.

"Last night, I swear I heard someone singing in there," he said softly. "Not human, though. Like wind whistling through broken metal—sharp, cold, hollow. Like it was... calling me."

Kamarov paused, squinting at Petrov for a long moment. Then he let out a dry laugh, neither joyful nor mocking, just a reflex of someone too familiar with the line between delirium and reality.

"If you answer it," Kamarov said, "next time I'll be burying you without a head."

"Enough. Let's get back to work. The villagers still need plenty of help," Kamarov cracked his knuckles, ready for the next task.

Lise watched Rompev chop firewood to help her father and the villagers. His body bore long scars, which, by his own account, were earned through grueling training in varied combat environments—often uncomfortable and usually bloody.

Rompev wielded the axe as if it were an extension of himself. Each swing split the wood cleanly, the sharp sound ringing through the damp, cold morning. Sweat beaded at his temples, trickling down the faded scars that marked his muscled frame, glinting like badges of his private hardships.

Lise stood on the house's threshold, holding a steaming cup of tea she hadn't touched. She watched the soldier intently, not for the rugged allure of a battle-hardened man, but for the way he existed—silent, strong, unassuming amid the ruins.

"Rompev," she called, her voice soft but clear.

He stopped, turning to her. A flicker of surprise passed through his eyes—not at her call, but at the calm authenticity in her tone, as if it didn't belong in this place.

"My father thanks you... for helping with the firewood," she continued, her gaze falling to the axe resting on a split log.

Rompev nodded, not answering immediately. He wiped his sweat with a rag, then carefully stacked the wood, each piece aligned as if part of a ritual.

"No need for formality. We've got time for this... probably," he shrugged.

"Still, would you like some hot breakfast instead of those dry rations?"

Rompev tossed the axe aside, his expression open to the offer. "Let's go. What're we waiting for?"

Lise gave him a look of amused exasperation, caught off guard by his sudden shift. Rompev, however, seemed done with work for the moment, striding toward Monack's house. The aroma of a stew filled the air—beef broth, root vegetables, and spices, with bay leaf standing out over pepper.

The ingredients reminded him of a German or French dish. Whoever made it had poured effort into its perfection. He glanced at Lise, noting her slight embarrassment. He said nothing, settling into a creaky wooden chair.

"This was cooked early, huh?" he asked. "Where'd the ingredients come from?"

Lise set down wooden bowls for six. "From the pantry," she replied softly. "They're still fresh, so we used them today. Aren't you waiting for the others?"

"Maybe. They'll be back soon enough."

As if on cue, Monack and the captain entered, carrying tools and exchanging words Rompev couldn't quite catch. They set the tools aside, their stench not escaping Rompev's keen sense of smell. He muttered under his breath, "Sometimes I wish my nose could just shut off."

He covered his nose, tossing a jab at Vorosimorsk. "Ever think about sparing the food?"

Vorosimorsk glanced at Rompev, unimpressed by the weak attempt at humor. "No. The other two not back yet?" He didn't ask it as a question, knowing they'd return soon.

"You planning to eat without them?" Monack stared at Rompev. "If Kamarov melts you down, it'd be a shame."

Monack sat, scooping hearty spoonfuls of stew into his bowl. The aroma made him nod faintly, as if transported to some northern wilderness.

Just then, Kamarov and Petrov walked in, covered in dirt. Kamarov's usual grin was absent, replaced by a stern look, while Petrov massaged his shoulder, exhaustion clear.

"Running around all morning," Petrov said. "Tired as hell. We haven't bathed in days."

"Quit whining," Kamarov cut in. "If everyone was like you, we'd be running a nursing home."

"Shut up..." Petrov drawled, covering his ears as he shuffled to the table.

Kamarov chuckled, joining him. He eyed the stew with a spark of enthusiasm—a hot meal after a cold morning's work was a rare treat.

"Who made this?" Kamarov asked, grinning as he scanned the room. "Definitely not you." He shot a look at Rompev, who shook his head in mock defeat.

Lise flushed as both Petrov and Kamarov's eyes turned to her.

"Me... and my father," she said quietly, smoothing the edge of her apron. "It's just a simple stew, nothing special."

"Nothing special?" Petrov raised a brow, blowing on a heaping spoonful before tasting it. He chewed deliberately, then nodded gravely, like a general studying a battle map. "If this is 'nothing special,' then what I ate in the army must've been pig slop."

"Not 'must've,'" Kamarov interjected, deadpan. "It was."

The table broke into soft laughter. For a fleeting moment, that small sound washed away the shadows lurking beyond the misty windows. The humble house, though poor, became a fleeting fortress against the storm to come.

Rompev ate silently, his eyes tracking everyone—a reflex, as if every word, glance, or shift was battlefield data. But deep down, he admitted to himself he felt... warm.

Maybe it was the stew. Maybe it was Lise's glance as she refilled his bowl. Or perhaps the faint scent of bay leaf, stirring a memory of a peaceful evening untainted by war's darkness.

After the meal, as the sun rose higher and the fog nearly dissipated, the group returned to work. While Kamarov and Petrov resumed their tasks, Rompev patrolled the village outskirts, scanning for any threats.

He crossed the high hills, his sharp eyes missing little. Occasionally, a stray animal passed by—sometimes a beast, sometimes something... stranger.

If magical beasts—creatures with animal instincts but imbued with magic—could be tamed with enough strength and skill, the higher-tier "monsters" were another matter. Orcs, with their rudimentary tactics, brute strength, and bloodlust, were prime examples. Rompev avoided them unless backed by a mechanized rifle platoon, at the very least.

Today, though, there were no major disturbances. The northern Papaldian village was peaceful, at least for now. Its rustic simplicity and friendly locals stood out. Kamarov and Vorosimorsk had taken time to explain the situation to the villagers.

Orders from command remained unchanged for three days: "Maintain presence, observe local behavior, survey terrain, and detect signs of local armed forces." Brief, dry, and vague—typical of campaigns where even strategic leaders lacked clarity. Everything was still in the "probing" phase, which, to Rompev, was the most dangerous.

He'd always seen their initial mission—scouting and infiltrating Papaldia's regime—as a test. No orders to return home had come in ages, forcing him to carry out tasks without clear purpose.

This was odd for the GRU. Still, reports were sent regularly, and to avoid leaks, they'd used stacks of notepaper to record what they deemed most useful.

Rompev paused on a moss-covered rock overlooking the valley, where the village slumbered in faint sunlight. No suspicious movements, no local scouts, just the wind through the trees and occasional bird calls. A serene scene—but the kind of calm Rompev never trusted.

"This place is quieter than I expected, at least compared to yesterday," he murmured, pacing the hills. "Or maybe they're waiting for us to leave before striking?"

He scanned again. Nothing. But his guard stayed up.

"I'll patrol a bit longer."

...

Kamarov was hauling sacks of cornmeal for the villagers, who understood enough Russian or the common tongue to communicate. It was a surprising convenience in emergencies.

Their original goal wasn't to help for free, but since the village lay on the route to PMC RIM's supply camp, it offered a chance to study the terrain—spanning thousands of square miles. An unrealistic scope given the time, yet they'd been here nearly five months, relentless. They occasionally met RIM or Wagner groups for supplies.

Mercenaries weren't always respected, but to the state, they were a hidden blade beneath a staff, fostering warm ties with the government. PMC RIM, however, was a different beast.

Kamarov had fought alongside RIM before its founding in 2012. Objectively, it was the most aggressive outfit in Russia or former Soviet states. Not a personal opinion—many campaigns included at least one RIM platoon as "volunteer fighters" nominated by the government from local militias, yet they spoke Russian better than Russians.

Kamarov stopped at the village's poorhouse, tossing a sack inside, grumbling, "Damn it, these sacks are heavy as a tank stuck in mud. One more, and my back's done."

He wiped his brow with a filthy sleeve, glaring at Petrov, who lounged near a pile of rations.

Petrov shrugged. "Lighter than when you hauled that anti-air gun through Donetsk. I remember someone cursing the whole way, just like now."

Kamarov smirked at the younger soldier. "Yeah, well, at least there was vodka then. Here? Not a drop—just cornmeal, ragged villagers, and idiots staring like I'm a soul-eating monster."

Petrov rolled up his sleeve, revealing an old scar. "At least we're not eating MIR's kamikaze drones. You were joking fine earlier—why so grumpy now?"

Kamarov sighed. "Four months here, and reporting to command feels pointless. You get me—five years together, you know what I mean."

Petrov shook his head, amused but not calling out Kamarov's deflection. He grinned, kicking Kamarov's backside before resuming work.

"Make sure to shovel that pig dung!" Petrov called, darting off before Kamarov could react.

"You little bastard," Kamarov muttered, eyeing the pantry, capable of holding nearly a ton. He shook his head. "Five years to get to 'you' and 'me' terms, huh?"

He slumped onto a sack, back against the rough wooden wall, exhaling like he'd fought a battle. His eyes traced the shoddy roof planks, where faint light seeped through cracks, casting a mix of claustrophobia and unexpected calm.

"Maybe I'm really getting old," he muttered to himself or the silent shed. "This hauling used to be nothing..."

Footsteps approached. Petrov returned, a rusty shovel over his shoulder, grinning.

"Done. Villagers say we can use the dung pit for ash composting. Oh, and the old lady at the village edge sent some roasted sweet potatoes. Want one, or you still full of cornmeal?"

Kamarov took one without thanks, just a nod, and ate in silence. They'd shared hundreds of meals in worse places, yet each carried a strange weight—not intimacy, but trust forged through too many near-deaths.

Later, as the afternoon wind grew chilly, Kamarov asked, "Ever think, after all these years, we'd end up in a weird world, fighting fairy-tale monsters and playing adventurers?"

Petrov tapped the shovel like a cigarette. "Yeah. I figure if we die here, no one'll notice. No records. No memorials. Just some weird Russian-dressed corpses amid jungle and cornmeal."

He paused, his voice flat, like reciting a twisted fairy tale. "But at least... I know who'll shoot with me to the last bullet."

Kamarov met his gaze. A quiet moment passedsome weird Russian-dressed corpses amid jungle and Diagnostics. No grand words. No handshakes. No tears. Just a nod, like a commander's signal in the trench: Move forward.

He stood, stretched, and hefted the last sack. "Let's finish. Hell, the dung smells better than politics. At least here, we know who the enemy is."

Petrov smirked. "And who's the friend."

They left the shed, their shadows stretching in the fading light. Two men, trudging figures, but never alone.

For in this strange world, Kamarov knew one thing:

Someone always had his back. No words needed. No special titles. Just there, like a piece of his spine.