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.

_____

"There are fascinating psychological patterns that I could explain, but that does not mean I wish to speak of them. It is the curiosity of the inquirer that compels me to elaborate."
— Excerpt from the diary of Scholar Hamtimore.
...
April 28, 2021/4018, Fourth Era.

On a windswept trail where the air hummed with whispers, the Spetsnaz team and a mage pressed forward toward a destination only one among them truly desired. The five moved lightly, unhurried, savoring the cool atmosphere of this alien planet. The endless plains stretched before them, blades of grass swaying in the breeze, painting a lyrical scene that could make one forget their troubles.

Yet, for the four men, the tranquility was turning sour. Hours had passed, and the unchanging landscape tested the patience of these battle-hardened warriors. Long marches were no stranger to them compared to their grueling training days, but this silence, unbroken by the tension of conflict, was stifling.

Thankfully, their discomfort was eased by Lise's rhythmic singing. Her simple folk tunes, easy enough for them to grasp, carried lessons meant for children—obey your elders, beware the dangers of the outside world. Familiar themes, yet the songs were flavored with the peculiarities of this world.

The crunch of boots on the earth created a monotonous rustle, repetitive and dull. Rompev led the way, staying close to Lise, his eyes scanning for any sign of trouble. The three behind maintained formation: Vorosimorsk at the rear, with Kamarov and Petrov walking closely, ready for any sudden threat.

The silence behind them was as heavy as a moonless night, unbroken and oppressive. No one spoke, but something had to give. Rompev, unwilling to let the team's camaraderie stagnate despite the mission's lack of urgency, broke the quiet.

"Hey, Lise," he called softly, turning his head.

"Hm?" She paused, looking at him with mild confusion.

"About your family. We're heading there, right? Maybe it's time to talk about them."

"My family?" Lise tilted her head, puzzled by Rompev's phrasing but quickly catching his intent. "You mean you want to know about them? Well, sure, but it might be... how do I put it? Hard to hear?"

She offered a hesitant smile, her eyes betraying a flicker of reluctance. Rompev, sensing it, reassured her. "If you don't want to, that's fine. How about your magic training instead? That might be more interesting. I bet you've forgotten most of what those Papaldian books taught you. Pretty useless without those notebooks in your backpack."

He let out a chuckle, catching the attention of the two behind. Kamarov, sensing something lively in Rompev's tone, piped up. "What's so funny?" he asked eagerly.

Rompev glanced back, still grinning. "Just asking about her training. Nothing big."

"Nothing big?" Kamarov teased, turning to Petrov. "You hear that, Petrov? He's trying to keep us out of the fun. Should we send Rompi some love letters?"

"Kamarov," Petrov cut in, his face as stoic as ever while scanning their surroundings. "We're still in formation. Can't let our guard down in unfamiliar territory. Beasts could strike at any moment. Right, sir?"

Vorosimorsk, at the rear, gave a slight nod, agreeing with Petrov. Kamarov's face fell, disappointed. Lise, checking her map and surroundings carefully, spoke up to the three behind her.

"It's fine. In this area, the beasts aren't very active. Relax a bit," she said gently. Kamarov, thrilled, pumped his fist and elbowed the air. "Perfect! Now, tell us about your training at that... what's it called? I forgot."

"Edinburg Academy," Lise replied, her voice tinged with nostalgia and a hint of sadness. "One of the oldest academies in Milishial. It's rigorous, with an overwhelming amount of knowledge to absorb."

"How did they teach you there?" Rompev asked, his eyes glinting with curiosity.

Lise thought for a moment before answering. "The instructors were strict. They focused on honing mana, controlling its flow, and using it efficiently. The first few years were all theory, no practice. But in the higher levels, we started applying it. I worked hard, but the results... weren't what I hoped for. Didn't I mention this during that crisis of confidence we had? It wasn't even that long ago."

Kamarov squinted at her. "You didn't graduate, did you?"

Lise lowered her head, her expression dimming. "No. I was held back two years ago. I didn't pass the practical exams. They said I lacked patience and couldn't control my mana properly."

Rompev looked at her, his gaze free of judgment, only quiet empathy. "But you're still powerful. That's kept us alive through plenty of fights."

Lise gave a faint smile, though it wasn't entirely bright. She nodded, her face still tinged with melancholy. "True, but my magic didn't come from classrooms. It came from facing death, from battles I couldn't escape. Sometimes, life forces you to use things you don't want to... and that's how I survived."

"That's an achievement," Vorosimorsk said suddenly, his voice warm like a father's. The others turned to him as he quickened his pace to catch up. "In a world full of injustice, we adapt to survive. But you've done more than that, Lise. You've lived with passion. That's what makes you strong, not some textbook theories."

Lise looked at Vorosimorsk, her eyes brimming with unspoken stories, as if waiting for something to burst forth. She sensed a shared thread among her comrades—scars they carried, hidden beneath their stoic exteriors. Nothing in this world was given freely; everything was fought for. Had they claimed what they needed? She wasn't sure, but she knew their strength came from enduring their own tragedies.

"What have you been through, sir?" Lise asked, her voice soft but earnest, directed at Vorosimorsk.

He paused, his gaze drifting to a distant horizon, as if chasing a faded memory. When he spoke, his voice carried a weight of reflection.

"We all bear scars in our souls, young lady," he began, his tone heavy. "My life has been a river full of jagged rocks. Wars, upheavals... they've carved themselves into me. If you ask me the cost of what I've gained, I'd say it wasn't cheap. I watched an empire I believed in crumble, saw friends and comrades fall for ideals no one remembers."

He paused, choosing his words carefully. "In 1993, after the Black October, I lost everything. My country, the Soviet Union, collapsed, and those I fought alongside became enemies. Chechnya... I'll never forget it. Two wars, thousands of lives, horrors I can't unsee. I survived, but no wound heals completely."

He looked up, his eyes piercing the distant clouds. "Yet we keep living, Lise. No one hands us miracles. We forge our own, by surviving, by fighting. And most importantly... by never forgetting who we are."

Lise fell silent, absorbing the truth in his words. Each member of this team carried a past steeped in pain, but those wounds fueled their strength. In this moment, she understood that their dark histories were inseparable from who they were.

Kamarov broke the silence, his voice cutting through the heavy air. "Guess we're all survivors in an unfair world. But at least we've got each other."

"Exactly," Petrov said, his cold tone softened by a trace of empathy. "That's why we hold the line—not just in battle, but in life."

"What happened in Russia, the Soviet Union, it's all gone," Vorosimorsk said, his voice still low. "Sorry, Lise, for dampening the mood." He rubbed his face, fighting back tears.

Lise shook her head gently, her eyes clear of burden. No apologies were needed; they all understood. Each carried deep wounds, but those scars forged an unbreakable bond. They survived for each other, fought for each other, and sometimes, those painful stories made them stronger than ever.

Kamarov spoke again, eager to lighten the mood. "Enough about the past. We've got a long road ahead." He grinned, though his eyes held a trace of sadness. "Keep moping like this, and we'll never get anywhere."

"Agreed," Petrov said, his voice firm but resolute. "Let's move forward. Lise, about your family—right?"

Lise looked at the three men awaiting her response. After a moment's thought, she decided to share.

"My family's small. Just my father, mother, and younger brother. My father's a well-known blacksmith in our village. My mother worked as a farmer on a local noble's estate—though I guess the rebels dealt with him already?" She paused, then continued. "Anyway, my brother's mostly a hunter. At least, that's what I know from letters. It's been two years."

"Doesn't sound like a tight-knit family," Kamarov observed, sensing the unease in her tone. As teammates, they needed to understand each other's struggles. Even Rompev, once cold and distant, had opened up, so it was only fair Lise did too.

"Not exactly," she admitted, her voice heavy with sadness. "My father... he was against me becoming a mage. He forbade me from studying magic anywhere."

"But you left and became a mage anyway?" Petrov asked, a hint of skepticism in his tone. "How?"

Lise continued, "My mother gave me her savings so I could study at Edinburg in the Holy Empire."

Kamarov, curious, asked, "How much was tuition?"

"Not counting extras, just tuition was 26 Solidus a year. With everything, probably over a hundred. The money my mother gave me—about 500 Solidus—was hard-earned."

"Your mother sacrificed a lot for your dream," Vorosimorsk said, his voice low, as if feeling Lise's pain. "That's precious, but also a heavy burden."

"Yes," Lise admitted, her gaze distant. "I feel I've let her down. I couldn't become the mage she hoped for. Every letter from home fills me with guilt. I'm not just studying to be a mage but to prove I can do something for my family. Four years, and nothing to show for it. I left because I felt useless."

Kamarov nodded, his face serious. "You don't need to feel that way. Everyone has their own path. Sometimes, it's not about proving yourself to others but finding yourself."

"Exactly," Petrov added, his cold tone warming slightly. "We can't live just to please others. What matters is living for ourselves."

Lise smiled, touched by their support. "Thank you. I'll keep trying, no matter how hard it gets."

Rompev looked at her, his eyes resolute. "And we'll be here to back you up. We're a team. No one gets left behind."

"Absolutely," Vorosimorsk said, his voice strong. "We'll face every challenge together, in battle and in life."

Kamarov grinned, breaking the tension. "Let's make some good memories on this journey. We're not just soldiers—we're friends."

"And," he continued, "tell us more about that academy. Why give up? Even if you were held back, becoming an adventurer—whether for money or redemption—quitting wasn't the answer. Didn't anyone at the academy help you? Friends? Teachers?"

Lise looked at Kamarov, surprised. "Honestly, I didn't have many friends there. Everyone was so competitive, and I felt out of place. They were all from noble families, while I was just a village girl. I always felt isolated."

"So you didn't seek help from them?" Petrov asked, his tone cool but concerned.

"Right," Lise admitted. "I didn't want to be a burden. I thought if I couldn't succeed on my own, I didn't deserve help. I tried so hard, but every failure made me feel more useless."

Vorosimorsk nodded, his eyes sympathetic. "Sometimes, we must accept we can't do everything alone. Asking for help isn't weakness—it's strength."

"But at the academy, everyone seemed arrogant, looking down on those without noble blood," Lise said, her voice tinged with bitterness. "They didn't understand that not everyone had their privileges. I saw so many talented people ignored just because they lacked status."

She paused, then continued. "That money was never enough. The extra fees made it feel like pouring a cup of water into the ocean. I had to work odd jobs to survive and study. They didn't have to worry—they had wealth."

Kamarov frowned, his expression grave. "That's the harsh reality. Places like that are for the wealthy and powerful. They don't care about talent without status."

"Exactly," Lise agreed. "Edinburg may be prestigious, but it's also a place of injustice and arrogance. I saw so many gifted people overlooked because they weren't from the right families. It left me disillusioned."

Rompev listened, his gaze serious. "But you didn't let it break you. You stood up and kept fighting. That's what matters."

"Indeed," Vorosimorsk said, his voice resonant. "We can't let society's prejudices define our worth. We carve our own paths."

Lise felt warmth from their encouragement. "Thank you. I won't let those things hold me back anymore. I'll keep learning and growing, not just for myself but for those who believed in me."

Kamarov grinned, his face brightening. "Then let's make this journey unforgettable. We're not just warriors—we're friends."

"And if anyone dares look down on you, show them your strength," Petrov said, his cold tone softened by warmth. "We'll stand together. No one gets left behind."

Lise nodded, her heart swelling with resolve. "I won't give up. I'll prove I can be a great mage, no matter the odds."

"That's the Spetsnaz spirit," Kamarov said, his tone lively. "There's a saying: 'No mission is impossible, only people lack determination.' So don't give up—you'll achieve your dreams."

The team continued their march, moving forward until an event disrupted their journey. Rompev scouted ahead to locate the village on the map—they were close, and a high vantage point would aid observation. Climbing a nearby hill, he scanned the area carefully. Nothing seemed amiss at first, but then his eyes caught it—black smoke rising in thick columns.

With a bad feeling, he pressed his comms. "Black smoke spotted, 11 o'clock, 900 meters out. Looks like a fire."

He sprinted toward it, though hours of marching under the sun had sapped his energy. Unable to run at full speed, he switched to a steady jog to conserve strength for a potential worst-case scenario.

Rompev dashed through patches of grass, their leaves brushing against him with a loud rustle, yet he stayed focused, listening for sounds ahead. A faint scream reached his ears—barely audible but enough to spur him forward. What awaited him? He quickened his pace, reaching the final hill where the smoke grew clearer.

Cresting the hill, a brutal scene hit him—houses ablaze, villagers fleeing in chaos, helpless. Scanning closer, he spotted figures distinct from the villagers.

"Damn it, Papaldian soldiers!" he growled, taking cover on the hill and radioing back. "Rom here. Enemy is Papaldian remnants attacking the village. Approximately fifty-six hostiles."

He raised his VSS rifle, aiming at the enemy. Through his scope, he saw them clearly—armed, slaughtering civilians. Rage flared within him at the inhumanity.

One shot, one kill. The fallen soldier alerted the others, who grew wary, scanning their surroundings. But it was futile—subsonic 9x39mm SP-5 rounds dropped more, unnoticed by the fleeing villagers who didn't understand why their attackers were falling. Rompev didn't care; cold as ice, he kept firing, sending them to whatever afterlife they deserved.

The remaining bandits, gripped by fear, scattered. After downing five, his team arrived. Rompev signaled them to stay low and briefed them.

"Village under attack by Papaldian remnants. Five down."

"Bandits, huh? What's the plan?" Kamarov asked, unusually serious.

Vorosimorsk assessed the situation. Engaging with gunfire would waste valuable ammunition when they had a cheaper option. After a quick analysis, he issued orders.

"No need to waste bullets. Switch to close quarters. Petrov, Kamarov, fix bayonets and prepare."

Kamarov interrupted, brimming with confidence. "No need. Kama's enough. Let's move fast."

"Execute the rescue mission!" Vorosimorsk barked, channeling his anger toward the enemy below.

Kamarov moved through the white smoke, his kama swinging like an extension of himself. His presence alone froze the enemy. A Papaldian soldier scowled, raising his weapon.

"Who's that?!"

Before he could react, a bright flash from Lise's magic circle in the distance drew all eyes, distracting the soldiers.

Another Papaldian peered through the smoke at the figure with the short scythe. As Kamarov's silhouette sharpened, a white magic circle materialized mid-air, stealing the enemy's attention.

Too late. Like a whirlwind, Kamarov's kama sliced through necks with surgical precision. Three fell, and he pressed on, bloodlust driving him to teach them a lesson they'd carry to the grave.

Kamarov advanced on another, intent on finishing him. The soldier, trembling like a cornered rabbit, backed away desperately. Kamarov, slightly dismissive, quickened his pace, missing one detail—an ambush.

Behind, Petrov saw Lise struggling with a powerful spell, her face strained. He felt a pang of pity but stayed focused. Spotting movement in a dark corner, he raised his AK-103 and fired at the hidden enemy.

Kamarov, startled, glanced back, grinning. "Thanks, buddy! Now..."

Petrov nodded curtly. But the gunfire drew more enemies, their crazed eyes fixed on Lise. They came from all sides, with Kamarov facing the brunt. Sensing trouble, Petrov fell back to Lise's position, confirming Rompev's count of their numbers. Gripping his bayonet, he braced for combat.

Farther back, Rompev and Vorosimorsk provided covering fire. Vorosimorsk fired short bursts, each lasting one to two seconds, enough to drop enemies. Rompev, the sniper, relied on precision, each shot a lethal strike.

Petrov sweated as the frenzied enemies charged. Kamarov, ahead with his kama, fought fiercely. Petrov fired sparingly, but the sheer number forced him to switch to his bayonet.

Gripping it tightly, Petrov felt the tension in the air. The Papaldians charged like wild beasts, their eyes mad with violence. He knew hesitation meant danger.

"Come get some, you bastards!" he roared, charging forward, his bayonet a deadly arrow.

Kamarov, equally relentless, cut down more enemies. But their numbers overwhelmed, slowly encircling them. "Hold the line, Petrov!" Kamarov shouted, slashing an oncoming soldier.

Petrov nodded, fueled by his comrade's resolve. With a powerful leap, he plunged into the fray, his bayonet a storm of precise, brutal strikes. Each hit drew screams, but he pressed on, a relentless machine.

Kamarov matched his ferocity, spinning to slice an enemy from the left. "We can't let them take control!" he yelled. "Show them Spetsnaz!"

From his perch, Rompev saw the tide turning against them without Lise's magic. He rushed to her side. "Lise! We need your power!"

"I'm... trying!" she gasped, exhaustion gripping her. But their resolve fueled her—she couldn't let them down after promising to persevere. "Just... a bit... more!"

Lise closed her eyes, channeling the mana within her. She drew strength from her memories, her pain, her unfulfilled dreams. Each breath pulled in the energy of her comrades fighting below. They weren't just teammates—they were family, found in her darkest moments.

"Take this!" she cried. The sky turned gray, thunder roaring fiercely. The bloodthirsty soldiers faltered, retreating in fear of something divine. White lightning bolts answered their dread, striking with precision, felling enemies in agony.

The deafening thunder and blinding light intensified the air's tension. The once-bold Papaldians panicked, realizing a mage's power was beyond them.

Seizing the moment, Kamarov and Petrov pressed the attack. "Hold the line!" Kamarov shouted, his kama a whirlwind. "No escape for them!"

Petrov dove into the chaos, his bayonet piercing through the disoriented foes. "Show them Spetsnaz!" he roared, each strike fueled by resolve.

Lise, drained from her spell, felt her strength fading. But seeing her comrades prevail filled her with pride—she'd made a difference. As she collapsed, Rompev caught her. "You're okay, Lise," he said softly but firmly. "You did great. We'll handle the rest."

Lise nodded, reassured by their fight for her and the villagers. She took a deep breath, her body weak but her spirit unbroken.

Kamarov and Petrov surveyed the fallen enemies, their bodies scorched. A warm but firm voice came from behind. "Get Lise to rest!"

Amid the command, Kamarov coldly slit the throats of the charred soldiers with his spare knife. Petrov, unfazed—having seen Kamarov do this to ISIS in Syria—focused on Lise. Villagers emerged, staring at them, leaving him uneasy.

In Lise's fading vision, everything blurred. Sounds faded, but she heard voices. With her last strength, she opened her eyes, seeing Rompev's worried face, though his words were lost. His arms around her felt warm, like her mother's embrace. Struggling, she whispered, "Father," before losing consciousness.

...

After eliminating the Papaldians, Kamarov noticed the villagers' fearful gazes. Lise's devastating spell likely caused it. Even he, from another world, would find a young woman wielding such destructive magic unsettling.

He pondered magic's nature. Was it merely a costly marvel? Mana, whether from within or external catalysts, wasn't like conventional fuel. Overusing it left mages debilitated, sometimes unconscious or dead. Was mana just renewable energy, like food or sleep, or something deeper?

Such thoughts were pointless now. They stirred memories of his childhood, drowned in political rhetoric. Shaking his head, he checked his weapon and faced the blood-soaked villagers.

They stood frozen, eyes locked on the group, torn between fear and hope. Some, likely relatives of the Papaldians' victims, trembled at the sight of the bodies.

Kamarov remembered their mission. This wasn't the time for philosophy. Clearing his throat, he spoke in their dialect, projecting calm.

"We're not your enemies. You're safe now."

No one responded immediately. An elderly man, likely the village elder, stepped forward hesitantly, his eyes wary but softening.

"Who... are you?" he asked, his voice hoarse from endured hardship.

Kamarov didn't hesitate. "We're Russians."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. "Russia?" some whispered, the name alien to most, though a few seemed to recognize it. Kamarov gauged their reactions, assessing their knowledge of his homeland.

Their confusion confirmed their isolation—likely unaware of the outside world, believing Papaldia still oppressed them. Pity stirred in him, but he pressed on.

"We're here to liberate this land from Papaldia's remnants," he said firmly. "We don't harm innocents. If you need help, we're here."

The air stilled after his words. Villagers exchanged glances, some still fearful, others daring to hope. A few women clutched their children, wary of trusting armed strangers who'd just annihilated the Papaldians.

The elder gripped his staff, took a deep breath, and met Kamarov's gaze. "If you speak the truth... does that mean Papaldia is defeated?"

Kamarov nodded. "We've crushed their main forces. Only scattered remnants remain, and we're hunting them to ensure they can't harm anyone again."

The crowd stirred, some weeping with relief, freed from tyranny. A young woman collapsed, sobbing, "Finally... we're free..."

Others echoed her, fear giving way to tears of joy. Kamarov and his team stood awkwardly, unsure of their next move. Papaldia's remnants mirrored old colonial empires, their pride turning them into marauding bandits—a bitter irony.

As Kamarov turned to leave, a man burst from the crowd—an older figure with gray hair, a muscular build, and a blood-stained longsword. Kamarov tensed, gripping his kama, ready to strike.

But the man shouted, "Lise!"

Ignoring Kamarov, he rushed to Rompev, who held Lise. His eyes brimmed with concern.

"My daughter! Lise!" he cried, voice thick with panic. Kamarov and Petrov exchanged glances, realizing this was Lise's father.

Rompev gently laid Lise down, ensuring her comfort. "She's exhausted from casting a powerful spell," he said, voice calm but worried. "She'll be fine."

The father knelt beside her, hands trembling as he touched her face. "Lise, my girl... are you okay?" His heart sank at her minor wounds.

"She's fine," Vorosimorsk said, his steady voice drawing the man's attention. "Who are you? And why is your daughter with us?"

The man's voice trembled with fear and worry. "You're her father?" Vorosimorsk asked, kneeling to meet his gaze with a serious look. The man, Ivan, glared back. "Yes."

Satisfied, Vorosimorsk stood, addressing the villagers. "We'll be busy for a bit, but your father and I have things to discuss."

He signaled the team to assist the villagers, contacting headquarters about the situation. The others helped with recovery and first aid. Initial wariness faded as Kamarov's easygoing demeanor bridged the gap, fostering cooperation.

Meanwhile, in a small forest, a wooden house with a moss-covered roof stood, its forge cold. Likely Lise's childhood home, she was brought inside to rest. Her father, Ivan, stepped onto the porch where Vorosimorsk waited on a wooden chair. They introduced themselves, and Vorosimorsk explained Lise's role with the Spetsnaz and their presence here.

Ivan listened, wiping sweat from his brow, pained by the years since Lise left. "I can't believe she went through all that," he said, covering his face to hide tears.

Vorosimorsk, understanding his grief, patted his shoulder gently. Ivan's wife had died from overwork under a local noble; the money Lise thought was savings was a loan her mother worked to death to repay. Her brother, conscripted by Papaldia, was likely dead. Vorosimorsk shared the brutal details of the Russia-Papaldia war, bonding over their shared pain.

Ivan admitted his failures as a father, too cautious to protect his family. "If I'd been braver... if I hadn't bowed my head..."

Vorosimorsk listened silently, knowing some pains couldn't be soothed with words. "The past is done," he said firmly yet kindly. "You and Lise are alive. Think about what's next."

Ivan looked up, eyes torn between despair and resolve. "I don't know... After losing my wife and son, I just waited... for something."

Vorosimorsk lit a cigarette, exhaling into the night. "Waiting gets you nowhere. Don't let the past chain you. You have a daughter, a home. Either stay buried in grief or find new purpose."

Ivan sat in silence, the wind carrying the night's chill. Then, as if deciding, he stood, his eyes clearer. "You're right. I can't keep living like this."

Vorosimorsk nodded, quietly pleased. Sometimes, a small push could help someone reclaim themselves.

Inside, Lise lay awake, tears streaming silently as memories of her home flooded back. The house, once warm, now felt like a relic of pain. She heard her father's voice outside, heavy with regret. She didn't blame him, but couldn't forgive herself for abandoning her family for a dream that brought only shame and failure.

Clutching the blanket, she stifled sobs, tears soaking the pillow. "I can't face him... I can't..."

She wanted to hide, to sink into darkness. But she knew she had to rise eventually, or remain trapped in her own prison of guilt.

The old wooden door creaked as someone entered. Lise lay still, feigning steady breaths, her face etched with pain. She'd overheard everything—her mother, her brother, the tragedies of eight years. Now, her father stood by her bed, watching her in the dim light.

"Lise..."

His hoarse whisper cut into her like a blade. How long since she'd heard that voice? Since she'd left without looking back?

She couldn't respond, tears streaming silently.

Ivan, once the family's pillar, now looked aged and weary. His calloused hand reached for her but hesitated, as if fearing she'd vanish.

"I always thought... you'd come back one day," he said, his voice trembling with suppressed pain. "But now that you're here... I don't know what to say."

He gave a bitter, hollow laugh. "Maybe I was a terrible father."

His words crushed Lise. She gripped the blanket, nails digging into her palms. No, it's not true! It's my fault! She wanted to scream, but her throat choked with guilt.

"I should've done more to protect our family," Ivan continued, his voice darkening with resurfacing memories. "I was too weak... and your mother paid with her life for your dream."

He faltered, voice breaking. "And your brother..."

Lise flinched, struggling to hold back her emotions. She hadn't thought of Allive since leaving, but now his absence was a gaping wound.

"Allive... he was a hunter. Four months ago, Papaldia took him to fight. I couldn't stop them."

Lise's heart tore. Her brother, the boy she'd protected and taught, lost to war without a goodbye. She'd abandoned him, her family, for nothing.

"I heard from Vorosimorsk about the war," Ivan said, his voice thick with torment. "The cruelty of it... I fear Allive is gone."

Lise stared at him, unable to process his words. Memories of her brother—early morning hunts, shared laughter—now only brought pain.

"I can't... I can't believe he's gone..." she whispered, tears choking her voice.

"I know," Ivan said, his voice heavy with sorrow. "But in this world, hope is scarce. We can only pray he's alive, but I can't cling to illusions anymore, Lise. I'm tired."

Silence fell, broken only by the wind and rustling leaves. Lise felt her world crumbling, standing on a precipice with nowhere to go.

After a long pause, Ivan sighed, as if unburdening years of hidden pain.

"No matter what, you're still my daughter."

Lise's heart shattered. Unable to hold back, she threw herself into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Father..." she choked, tears streaming. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry for leaving... for not coming back sooner... I was so selfish..."

Ivan held her tightly, his frail but strong arms comforting her. "It's okay, Lise... it's okay now..." His voice was warm, soothing, as if all pain could melt in his embrace. "I don't blame you... never did. You coming back is enough."

They held each other in silence. The world outside remained cold and dark, but in that moment, they reclaimed a fragment of lost happiness.

Vorosimorsk quietly left, giving them space for their unhealed wounds. Some scars never fade, but at least they'd found each other in the long, dark night.

As he stepped outside, he saw Rompev, Petrov, and Kamarov approaching, their uniforms filthy with dirt and sand. Kamarov, ever cheerful, waved. "Boss, we're back. The villagers—"

Vorosimorsk cut him off, his voice cold as a winter night. "Quiet."

He pointed to the house, its faint torchlight casting a fragile glow. The three froze, hearing Lise's heart-wrenching sobs echo from within. The sound silenced them—a raw, unshareable pain, a broken heart beyond repair. Even these battle-hardened men felt the weight of her grief.

Vorosimorsk said nothing more. He understood this wasn't the time to intrude. Turning to his men, his eyes firm yet respectful, he said, "Give them space."

He walked away, resolute, not looking back. He'd seen too much pain, too many losses. All that mattered now was letting Lise and her father face their past and find a sliver of peace in the storm.

The three stood silently, their gazes fixed on the house, where Lise and her family confronted unforgettable memories and unspeakable pain.

...

Meanwhile, at the Kremlin.

After reviewing Vlasov's detailed reports, President Vladimir Putin sat in disbelief. The vivid accounts, images, and emotions felt as if he were there himself.

"Is this real?" he asked his aide, rubbing his forehead as if his mind were overheating from the shocking information.

The aide, equally incredulous, hesitated. In this alien world, anything was possible. Yet, the idea of an ancient underwater ruin bearing clear Soviet traces—a platinum wall, no less—was staggering. The submerged structures and their unknown history demanded verification. The translocation event had already shattered humanity's scientific understanding, suggesting this could be another Soviet Union from a parallel world. Putin, having accessed KGB archives in the '90s—a period when many documents were destroyed—knew critical information might have been lost.

After a moment, his expression softened. "This is a historic discovery. Keep it classified. Instruct the Academy of Sciences to focus on that structure and related findings."

"Understood, sir," the aide replied, leaving Putin alone with his complex thoughts.

He'd planned for this world, but this revelation defied comprehension. Was this mere chance, or had another Soviet people once walked this land? What secrets lay buried in its history? The answers awaited discovery.