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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4:00 AM, April 30, 2021/4018, Fourth Era 

Dawn was just breaking, a faint, duckling-feather light that wasn't enough to guide a path but sufficient to remind you that sleep was no longer an escape. The pine forest was still cloaked in cold mist, its branches shivering slightly as a gentle breeze passed through, dislodging a few lingering dewdrops from the night before—icy warnings for anyone daring to step outside at this hour.

Kamarov had been awake for a while. He wasn't the type to need an alarm clock; he didn't have to be. His body, honed by years in the military, was a more precise instrument than any Swiss timepiece. The moment he heard the first bird chirp in the forest, his eyes snapped open. No rush, no hesitation—he got up, lit a cigarette, and stepped outside. The smell of tobacco mingled with the cold, damp air, creating a sharp, familiar blend, the scent of training days.

Petrov emerged from the house like a bear roused from hibernation in the dead of winter. He yawned widely, adjusted his belt, and scanned the surroundings with the squinting eyes of a cranky old man.

"Up this early, huh? My body clock's completely screwed."

And then there was Lise...

She was already standing there, waiting like a statue.

She wore nothing but a thin, dark tunic clinging to her slender frame, almost blending into the barely lit sky. No cloak, no gloves, no boots—just bare feet pressed into the cold earth as if she no longer felt the morning frost. Her hair was a mess, loosely tied with an old strip of cloth, a few strands fluttering in the breeze across her face.

"You up all night or what?" Petrov asked, yawning again and swallowing hard.

Lise didn't answer. She just looked at them both with a seriousness that seemed to burn in her eyes. They were wide, hollow, and utterly unapologetic.

Kamarov said nothing, stepping forward to inspect her carefully from head to toe. "Alright, I mentioned it in passing yesterday, but I didn't expect you to take it this seriously."

He sighed, taking a deep drag as if to mask a flicker of hesitation in his gaze. He thought for a moment, letting Lise stand there a little longer.

If I'm reading this right, I'm going to have to help this girl a lot. Standard special forces training won't work here—maybe just a bit above advanced, paired with flexible combat tactics to boost the team's fighting strength. He mulled it over, a touch uncertain about his choice.

It wasn't that he didn't want to help, but it was inherently difficult to make the right call for someone like Lise. Her past, at a glance, didn't seem extraordinary through modern eyes, but there could be hidden depths that not everyone would notice.

Damn it, this isn't my strong suit if I don't know someone's history, he thought, glancing at Lise with a hint of reluctance. Despite his usual sarcasm in serious moments, it didn't mean he didn't care about her—it was just that his care for "newbies" was restrained, neutral at best.

And whenever he truly helped someone, he'd ramble on to an absurd degree, earning him the nickname "The Talker." That was fine for some, but he wasn't sure it would be for Lise.

I've never thought about guiding someone like this, but... fine.

"Lise Allerian..." Kamarov's voice was firm but softened quickly. "Alright, we don't need to turn your time here into a full-on boot camp, but the training is real, and you... well, uh..."

He hesitated briefly before continuing, "We should probably change how we address each other. This 'you' and 'I' stuff feels too distant. Aren't we close enough by now? Even if we don't dig into each other's pasts."

Lise looked at him, tilting her head slightly as if trying to decipher his thoughts.

"How about by age?" she suggested.

"Not bad," Kamarov scratched his head, "but a bit basic. Anyway, let's move on..."

He began outlining exercises he deemed suitable for her condition. There were countless drills, but tailoring them to Lise's physical state was no easy task—though not impossible for him or Petrov, who'd endured enough during the Vostok 2014 exercises to understand and adjust for someone untrained by military standards yet brimming with extraordinary mental potential. Kamarov knew well: willpower could be trained, but physical and mental foundations couldn't be forced too quickly without risking a breakdown.

"Here's the plan." He crouched down, picking up a dry twig and sketching three small symbols in the dirt.

"Three-week goals. No, in this case, fourteen days. We cut out anything unnecessary. We'll split it into three phases: breaking physical limits, survival instinct training, and applying magic in real combat."

Petrov glanced at the diagram, frowning but not objecting. "Ambitious. Cramming those three phases into fourteen days is basically sending Lise to meet the Grim Reaper a few times."

Kamarov didn't react. He looked at Lise.

"Do you know why I agreed to this?" His voice was low, ashen.

Lise shook her head.

"Because you're not like the mages we've met who just stand there chanting spells. We need people who can adapt on the fly and have endurance."

She stayed silent but nodded, as if the fire from yesterday still burned fiercely within her.

Petrov whistled softly, patting Lise's shoulder. "If you survive fourteen days with this guy, I'm pretty sure you could take down an Orc patrol station single-handedly with a sleep spell."

"No such thing exists."

Her blunt response left Petrov visibly awkward, while Kamarov began explaining the necessary drills. Lise absorbed the concepts and exercises with astonishing speed, earning even Petrov's applause for her talent.

She tackled Kamarov's tailored drills with absolute seriousness, enough to unsettle the two seasoned soldiers. Starting with basics—push-ups, sit-ups, sandbag carries, and sprinting through natural terrain—Lise didn't complain or question. She did everything as if the concepts of "tired" or "enough" didn't exist in her vocabulary. Her steps on the ground were no longer those of an academy mage but carried the rhythm of a soldier.

Kamarov watched her every move silently, his posture rigid, his gaze stern. He'd seen countless recruits, both gritty and gifted, but what Lise displayed wasn't military discipline—it was something darker, more desperate. As if failing meant she'd vanish from the world.

"Stop." He signaled after her fifth sprint. "Rest for a minute. Drink."

Lise halted but didn't move to sit. She stood still, arms limp, shoulders trembling slightly from the cold sweat soaking her thin tunic. Her face was pale from the chill, yet she didn't utter a single complaint. Her empty eyes stared toward the misty forest ahead, where the sunlight still hadn't reached.

Petrov approached, offering her a water flask. "Here, drink. You're not a wooden statue."

"Thanks." Her voice was hoarse but steady. She took a few sips, then looked up at Kamarov.

"Continue?"

It wasn't a question. It was a confirmation.

Kamarov didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned to Petrov, raising a hand as if to say, "Prep for phase two."

"Phase two: survival instincts and reflexes," he said, facing Lise. "This is the most fragile part. You don't need raw strength but the ability to survive with minimal information. In a real battlefield, a mage isn't the last to cast a spell—they're the first to sense a sniper."

He tossed a small stone into a distant bush.

"For the next ten minutes, Petrov and I will hide in this forest. Your task is to find us both and mark us without attacking—use some light spell to tag us. No lethal force allowed."

"No attack spells?" she asked.

"None. If you use an attack spell and hit Petrov, I'll make you run twenty more laps."

"And if I hit you?"

"Then you're skipping lunch."

Petrov chuckled. "Brutal."

Lise didn't smile. She nodded.

Kamarov didn't wait. He and Petrov split in opposite directions, vanishing into the forest as if melding with the mist. No sound—no footsteps, no snapping twigs, nothing. The only things left were the cold and the ragged breathing of the small girl standing alone, facing her first test—not of strength, but of survival.

Ten minutes.

For someone untrained in combat, ten minutes in a forest with no information, no signals, and no allies could feel like torture.

But Lise didn't panic. She didn't panic because there was no room left in her mind for fear.

She closed her eyes.

Inhale, exhale.

Not to escape, but to listen. Her mind emptied—not aimlessly, but with purpose, the kind of silence sensory mages called "the blank." In it, all normal thoughts were pushed aside, leaving only the flow of mana and the subtlest natural instincts.

Lise lacked military knowledge, but she had mana—abundant, not explosive, but stable and sensitive. She began using a basic spell: Lumen Sigil, a low-tier magic often used in academy training to mark objects with faint light. It caused no damage but demanded high spatial awareness, sensitivity, and precise mana control.

She didn't chant or draw runes. Lise whispered with her mind, a rare technique used by those who cast through instinct, almost reflexively.

She exhaled softly and opened her eyes. The world looked the same: pine forest, fog, no sign of anyone.

But the feeling was different.

The air to her left shifted oddly, a subtle anomaly only those attuned to mana could sense. The wind didn't change direction. The fog didn't clear. But something was off, as if the natural flow had been bent for a moment.

Lise had no military training, but she'd been honed in mana sensitivity—not through academic theory but raw intuition. She raised her hand, gathering mana into a faint blue spark.

No chant.

No runes.

Just a touch, like flicking a finger across water, enough to trigger a spatial reflection.

She whispered, almost in thought: "Lumen Sigil."

The spell didn't flare brightly. It only revealed tiny disturbances—points where the mana flow was disrupted, even by a fraction.

A spark flared behind a bush.

Petrov froze, exhaled softly, then laughed and raised his hands in surrender. "Not bad, kid."

Lise didn't stop. She didn't turn.

She pivoted to the opposite side, where the silence was no longer natural. The air was too still, as if something was forcing the mana to stagnate.

In this world, mana wasn't just energy—it was a fundamental particle, present in all spaces like electrons or protons. Air, earth, even the fog held a stable density of it, forming what mages called the "ambient mana field."

But when something moved through that field—human, weapon, or cloaking spell—it left a temporary void in the mana. Like dragging a hand through fine sand: a groove forms, a disturbance, and it takes time for the surface to settle.

That groove, if you were sensitive enough, could be detected.

Lise didn't search with her eyes. She traced the mana's phase shifts.

She raised her hand again, using the same spell but differently—not marking anomalies but scanning the entire disturbed area.

"Lumen Sigil."

A thread-thin line of mana, carried by her breath, flowed out—gentle, invisible—until it hit a static void, a spot where the mana density hadn't fully redistributed.

A second spark flared, just behind a large tree.

Lise didn't need to confirm. She lowered her head and whispered, "I found you."

Kamarov stepped out from behind the tree. No applause. No smile. Just a calm gaze, the kind from someone who knew she'd just accomplished what most trainees only heard about in lectures.

"Nine minutes, twenty-seven seconds. Two targets, undetected, no attack spells. Better than I expected."

Petrov approached from behind, slapping Lise's shoulder hard enough to nearly topple her. "A rookie like this is a dream for any unit. Don't hog her, Kamarov."

Lise didn't smile. Her eyes were red from exhaustion, but her voice was steady: "What's next?"

Kamarov stayed silent for a long moment, his gaze lingering on her as if searching for something unspoken.

Then he nodded and turned away, his voice low: "Phase three: practical magic in combat, combining movement, instincts, and quick reactions. But first..."

He tossed her a small, gray military ration bar stamped with "Армия России."

"...eat breakfast. It's a long day ahead."

Lise caught it and sat down, still silent. But this time, she no longer seemed like a "wooden statue."

Kamarov watched her, quietly thinking to himself: How did I not notice this girl's brilliance before? She's far beyond what I thought a mage could be.

He turned away, lit another cigarette, and let the smoke drift into the waking pine forest.

The first day of training had only just begun.

...

While eating, Rompev found Kamarov and Petrov sitting and munching, watching Lise struggle through squats. His skeptical gaze flicked between the two men, as if they were slave drivers overseeing a helpless maiden.

He approached, his voice laced with reproach: "What kind of ugly game are you two playing?"

Kamarov didn't answer immediately. He finished chewing a bite of greens, took a swig of water, then looked at Rompev with a relaxed air. He glanced at Lise, performing squats no beginner could handle, unlike the other adventurers he'd observed.

Petrov, as usual, spoke first. "Hey, Rompev, this isn't some 'torture' routine. She's doing this willingly."

"She looks like she's about to collapse," Rompev snapped. He glanced at Lise, then back at the two men lounging as if watching a ridiculous show. "Is this why you two have been so quiet? Are you sure this is 'training' and not some disguised punishment?"

Kamarov waved a hand, stubbing his cigarette against a nearby tree. His voice was gruffer than usual. "Rompev, I get where you're coming from. But don't project your standards onto others. She chose this. No one's forcing her."

"No one's forcing her?" Rompev raised an eyebrow. "She's a mage, not a special forces operative. She could help in other ways—with knowledge, magic, anything other than breaking herself like she's in some Soviet Spetsnaz camp."

"You're seeing the result, not the reason," Petrov cut in, his voice lower now. "You see her squatting, but you weren't here this morning. You didn't see how she stood there, barefoot in the frost, looking at us like if she didn't train, she'd have nothing left to hold onto by tomorrow."

Rompev fell silent. Lise had shifted to planks now, her arms trembling, but her eyes burned with clarity, consuming every passing second. No one told her to do this. No one forced her. Yet she did it. Willingly. As if it was the only path left for her soul.

"It's not about what she wants," Rompev said, his voice almost a whisper. "It's about whether she's diving into this because she has nothing else. Has anyone asked her why?"

Kamarov looked up, meeting Rompev's eyes with a rare flicker of emotion. "I don't need to ask. I've seen that look in too many people. Lise isn't the first to fight as a way to survive herself. But she's the first to actually do it."

Rompev clenched his jaw but nodded, stepping back slightly. "Just remember this: she's not a tool. If I see you using her as a shield for new recruits, I'll be the first to turn on you."

Petrov chuckled softly. "Sounds like a line from a soap opera. But don't worry, we're not that dumb."

Kamarov said nothing more. He stood, brushed off his pants, and approached Lise. She was still holding her plank, lips pressed tight, breathing slow and steady.

"Stop," he said calmly.

Lise collapsed to the ground, arms trembling, face tilted toward the sky. But not a single complaint.

"Good work," he said softly. "That's enough for this morning."

Rompev stepped forward, offering her a towel and another flask of water. "You don't have to push yourself like this. There are plenty of ways to help without doing what they do."

Lise wiped her face, not responding immediately. After a moment, she turned to Rompev, her hollow eyes softening slightly, and shook her head.

"It's not for them," she said. "I need this. Not for anyone's approval. But so I know... I'm not afraid anymore."

Rompev hesitated, then gave a small nod. "If you need anything, just say so. I'm not some hardcore soldier like these Western guys, but I know how to make sure no one walks alone."

Lise said nothing more. But this time, she didn't lower her head.

Kamarov, from a distance, watched them. In that moment, he realized this training wasn't just a test of physical or magical ability.

It was a test for someone lost in life. It was an undeniable dependence, but since its impact wasn't yet clear, he stayed silent and met the girl's demands. He would observe carefully, making adjustments in the days to come.

...

Eight days later, May 8, 2021/4018, Fourth Era

The weather hadn't changed much, but the atmosphere was entirely different.

The morning cold lingered, and the mist still draped the pine trees like a giant spiderweb, but the oppressive silence no longer carried a threatening edge. In the once-stifling forest, there were now steady footsteps, soft breaths, and the faint hum of mana spells repeated in relentless drills.

Lise was moving. Not "walking" as she had eight days ago, but executing a fluid sequence of actions—rolling, taking cover, raising a mana shield, pivoting, casting Lumen Sigil, then sprinting between mock positions. Kamarov no longer needed to bark orders. Petrov didn't need to count steps. She'd internalized everything as if it were part of her.

Unlike the strained austerity of the first day, Lise no longer looked like a mage lost in a training camp. She carried a new presence—not quite a warrior, but no longer a mere theoretical student. Her magic had changed, stripped of the academy's flashy flourishes. Instead, it was faint, precise sparks—nothing more, nothing less.

She had weaponized her magic.

Petrov nodded approvingly. "She's starting to 'smell' the environment like a scout. Her eyes aren't sharp enough yet, but her mana instincts... damn, I never thought a mage could learn this fast."

Kamarov didn't respond. He was studying a rough wooden board set up at the forest's edge, tracking Lise's progress by day: stamina, reflex speed, mana density usage, error rates in spellcasting. Most metrics were trending upward—but the concern wasn't the numbers.

It was how quickly they were rising.

Lise was like a fugitive, throwing her body and mind into training as if a beast were chasing her. She refused no drill, no matter how painful or exhausting. Sometimes, she was almost... dangerously eager.

He didn't voice this to Petrov. Petrov, though experienced, wasn't as attuned to the "mental" side as he was. Kamarov saw it: Lise's resilience wasn't born of discipline or ideals.

It came from fear—deep, heavy, and silent.

He'd seen it before. In Donetsk. In Chechnya. In Syria. Kids thrust into war, not because they wanted to, but because they had no way back. And they'd become good soldiers—if they didn't die first.

"I never thought I'd train a mage so incompatible with Spetsnaz to fight alongside our tactics," he said, arms crossed, soup bowl in hand. "Still, we can't deny she learns fast. But there's something... unstable in her psyche."

Petrov exhaled, staring at his steaming soup, his gaze distant as if seeing through the trees. "Honestly, I don't like how quiet she is. No complaints, no reactions. Tell her to run, she runs. Tell her to roll, she rolls. Tell her to take a hit, she doesn't even flinch."

"Exactly the type to become a killing machine—or implode from a mental breakdown first," Kamarov said dryly, eyes still on the data board. "She's not training. She's running from something, not realizing it's inside her head."

They fell silent, the only sounds the wind through wet leaves and the occasional thud of Lise hitting the forest floor, getting up, and continuing.

...

Vorosimorsk stood beside Monack, watching Lise train with the two men. Her demeanor had shifted noticeably over these training days. Initially, Monack had objected, deeming it unsuitable, but he explained that Lise chose this to avoid being a burden to the team, pushing herself to improve.

It wasn't the best choice, but it helped align her with the team's tactics. The trade-off was the grueling effort she was enduring.

"She's gotten so much stronger," Monack said, his voice heavy with a deep sadness. "She used to hate heavy work unless forced. Now she's doing this on her own. I've failed as a father, unable to keep up with my own daughter."

Vorosimorsk leaned forward, glancing at the village behind them. It had changed slightly, still haunted by the previous attack but beginning to find a new rhythm.

Over the past two days, a PMC Wagner group had found the village and decided to stay temporarily, providing supplies before essentials ran out. Logistics were usually handled by PMC RIM, but news of Andrei Zudsanov altering routes meant they'd stay longer.

This was relayed to the team on their third day in the village. Monack had expected Kamarov to object as usual, but he seemed unusually enthusiastic—until Monack learned Lise was training under them.

In truth, this was a positive development, especially for team cohesion. But doubts lingered about Lise's motives. Was it just about getting stronger, or was she escaping something intangible in her mind? Monack didn't need answers now, but the time for questions would come.

"We know," Vorosimorsk said. "For now, it's best to let her make her own choices. We only step in if it's harming her."

Monack nodded, glancing at the Wagner group moving through the village. He hadn't realized Vorosimorsk's country held such influence. Papaldia had fallen, and Russia was taking its place. He'd tried probing Vorosimorsk's intentions, but the Colonel was clear: "Everything we do is within ethical bounds. We avoid conflict as much as possible. This outcome was Velsai's doing for attacking us first. No need to worry—we're not out to harm anyone. Everything's 'normal,' especially with Lise. We've minimized engagements as much as possible."

Monack gave a faint smile, replaying the response in his mind—a seasoned smile, neither fully trusting nor dismissing. Overly polished answers were often the most suspect, especially from someone like Vorosimorsk. Unlike the Papaldian officers who'd come before, he was too composed, too cautious, never swayed by emotion.

"I hope when you leave, you'll treat her like family," Monack said.

"I can assure you of that. We have a tradition: those who bond long enough, from any nation, become family." Vorosimorsk clenched a raised fist, emphasizing his point. "Sometimes we push boundaries, but we know restraint. Don't judge Kamarov by his aloofness. As you've seen, he's oddly serious about this. His record's got some redactions—let's leave it at that. But rest assured, Kamarov opens up to those who deserve it, and Lise is one of them."

"It's hard to believe a guy making decisions like that can care about anyone," Monack said. "Is that a lie? No need to answer—I'll figure it out while I'm here. How long will these Wagner folks stay?"

Vorosimorsk hesitated. "Not sure. I'll remind them to protect this place if needed. I've got some pull with Wagner."

"Your country's more unique than I thought," Monack said, shaking his head. "Just let me know when you leave so I can prepare."

"Thanks, but no need for gifts. We're not good enough for that."

"Alright. I hope you keep your word."

Monack walked back to his house, leaving one last remark: "I hope you don't turn her into something I'd hate."

Vorosimorsk didn't respond immediately, watching his team below with a hint of satisfaction.