It had been days since Dmitry Yazov and his comrades had woken up from that strange, unnatural slumber. The air had felt heavy when they first opened their eyes, as if the weight of an entire world had shifted. They had thought it to be a momentary confusion, the aftermath of celebrating their unification of Russia. But it hadn't taken long for the unsettling reality to reveal itself.
They were no longer on Earth.
The sky above the once-familiar streets of Omsk was now an alien shade of purple, with swirling clouds that seemed to twist and flicker in ways that defied logic. Worse still were the moons—two of them, hanging in the sky like eyes watching the intruders. One was pale, almost ghostly, while the other burned a sickly red. No matter how hard Yazov tried to shake it off, there was no denying it. Mother Russia had been cast into another world, far from the earth he had sworn to defend and dominate.
His men had been quick to assess the situation, as ordered. Border posts reported strange landscapes stretching far beyond what they had known—endless forests of trees that bore twisted, unnatural shapes, vast plains covered in silvery mist, and mountains that rose far too high for their peaks to even be seen through the haze. The air reconnaissance had confirmed it: nothing beyond the borders of their new territory matched any maps or landmarks they knew. No familiar rivers, no known cities, no enemy encampments. Just emptiness.
And yet, for all the strangeness of the world, Russia stood—untouched, unchanged, as if the land itself had been ripped from its foundations and placed here. The roads, the factories, the fortresses, all remained exactly as they had been. But beyond the borders, it was a new and untamed land, alien and hostile in its quiet strangeness.
Yazov stood at the edge of the command post, his eyes scanning the horizon. His hands rested behind his back, fingers flexing, clenching in frustration. There was no war. No enemies to crush, no conquest to plan. The Great Trial he had been preparing for—the final, glorious war against the Aryan Reich—had been rendered meaningless in the blink of an eye. His entire life had been building to that moment, the climactic struggle between Russia and its most hated enemy. And now… nothing.
A hollow, gnawing emptiness filled his chest. It wasn't relief, not entirely. It was something darker, more twisted—a feeling of having been robbed of purpose. He had always known there was a chance his men would die in the war to come, but it was supposed to be a death with meaning, a death for the glory of the Motherland. Now, there was only silence.
Behind him, Colonel Volkov approached, his steps deliberate. "The expeditionary force is ready, General Secretary. We'll set off at first light."
Yazov didn't turn to face him, keeping his gaze on the alien landscape that lay just beyond Russia's borders. "Good. The sooner we know what we're dealing with, the better."
Volkov stood at attention for a moment, his brow furrowed. He had always been a man of few words, but even he couldn't ignore the strangeness of the situation. "I can't make sense of it, sir. We were prepared for the Aryans. We had the factories running day and night, the soldiers trained for Total War. And now…"
Yazov's voice was low, almost a growl. "Now there's no war to fight. No enemy to face. Just this… place."
Silence fell between them. Yazov had always been a man driven by purpose, by the unyielding desire to see Russia rise again as the dominant power in the world. Every decision he had made, every sacrifice, every purge, had been for that singular goal. Now, for the first time in decades, he felt adrift. What was victory without a war?
Volkov seemed to sense the thoughts gnawing at his commander. "Perhaps there's something beyond these borders worth conquering. We don't know what lies in this new world. Maybe… it's an opportunity."
Yazov finally turned to face him, his eyes cold but contemplative. "An opportunity for what? To build an empire in a world we don't understand? To fight enemies we've never seen? This isn't what we planned for."
"No, it isn't," Volkov admitted. "But it's what we have. And whatever brought us here—this land, these skies—they mean something. Maybe the god Himself have chosen us for a reason. Maybe this is our Great Trial, just not the one we expected."
Yazov grunted, turning his gaze back to the horizon. The sky was growing darker, the two moons casting eerie shadows across the landscape. It was a grotesque, unnatural beauty. It angered him, filled him with an unsettling sense of being out of place in a world that wasn't his. And yet… Volkov had a point. Perhaps there was something here, something waiting to be claimed by the iron will of Russia. This new world, whatever it was, would learn to bend beneath the weight of his rule, or it would burn.
But the emptiness gnawed at him still.
"Send a Air scout mission ahead of the main force tomorrow," Yazov ordered. "I want to know what's out there before we march in blindly. I don't trust this place."
"Yes, General Secretary."
As Volkov turned to leave, Yazov remained, watching the horizon. He could hear the distant hum of the factories still running, the rhythmic march of soldiers training for a war that would never come. It should have been comforting, but it wasn't. He had built this nation for war, for blood and sacrifice. And now, he found himself in a world where none of that mattered.
It was an empty victory.
But if this new world thought it could drain the fight from him, it was mistaken. Yazov would find a new enemy, a new war. The god—or whatever force had brought them here—would not break his will. He had led Russia through hell and back, and if this new land wanted a fight, then he would give it one.
The Great Trial would happen, one way or another. Even if he had to drag this strange world into it himself.
Yazov clenched his fists, feeling the familiar surge of determination swell inside him once more. He may not know what lay beyond Russia's borders in this twisted, alien world, but whatever it was, he would conquer it.
He turned from the horizon, already formulating his plans.
The hum of the engines was a low, comforting drone beneath Captain Mikhail Arlovsky's seat, a sound that normally would have sent him into a calm, almost meditative state. But today, even as his fighter cut through the thick, alien air of this new world, something gnawed at him—a feeling, something beyond just the strangeness of the skies he now flew under.
He had been in the air for over three hours, flying high above the twisted landscape below. It was hard to think of it as Mother Russia anymore, even though the borders of his homeland still remained intact. But beyond those borders, everything was wrong. Alien. The earth below was a patchwork of wild forests, silvery plains, and jagged mountains that seemed to stretch impossibly high into the heavens. The sky itself was a deep, bruised purple, broken only by the unsettling sight of two moons, hanging like ominous sentinels in the heavens.
For days, the Black League had been preparing for this. An expedition force unlike any the world had ever seen, sprawling across vast fronts, exploring this strange land they had been thrust into. It wasn't just the army—it was the navy, their great warships cutting through the new ocean that had appeared to the west, its dark waters still largely unmapped. The air force had been deployed in full, its wings spread wide across the unknown skies, assisting in the grand task of understanding this bizarre new reality.
And for the first time in his career, Mikhail was genuinely happy.
In a strange, twisted way, this new world had saved them all. The Great Trial—the war that Yazov had so meticulously planned, the final struggle against the Aryan Reich—had been ripped from their hands. The Reich, for all its arrogance, was gone. That meant no more dodging bullets, no more bombings, no more endless slaughter in the name of the Motherland. He could live out the rest of his days flying, surveying, exploring—not fighting.
He had been a soldier for over a decade, and in all that time, he had seen nothing but war. Training had been a constant; skirmishes at the border, drills, and more drills. He had joined the air force knowing that, sooner or later, he would die in the flames of combat, sacrificed for the glory of Russia. It was the way of things, the way it had always been.
But now? Now there was no enemy, no Aryans marching over the horizon. Only this new world, empty and vast, waiting to be discovered.
He glanced down at the instrument panel, flicking a switch to bring the radio online.
"Arlovsky here," he called out. "Report status. All wings check in."
A few moments later, the voices of his squadron filled his ears, one by one.
"Falcon-2, all clear."
"Falcon-3, skies are clean."
"Falcon-4, no sign of anything yet."
He smiled, tapping the side of his console. "Good. Let's keep it that way."
For all their years of training, none of them had ever prepared for this. Their mission was not one of war, but of exploration—a grand expedition to survey this new world that had appeared beyond their borders. Half of Russia's army was already mobilized, pushing out in all directions, their tanks rumbling over alien soil. The navy had set sail, heading into the unknown waters of the ocean that had sprung up seemingly overnight. And the air force? They were tasked with mapping the skies, providing reconnaissance, and ensuring that no threats lay hidden in the clouds.
It was strange to think of the world without the constant threat of death looming over them. Mikhail had spent so much time preparing for war that now, in this eerie calm, he almost felt lost. But not entirely. He had always loved to fly, and now, in this endless sky, he could do so without fear.
Or so he thought.
---
It wasn't long before the land below began to change. Mikhail squinted through the glass of his cockpit, frowning as the once-wild, untamed terrain started to give way to something more… organized. He adjusted the altitude, bringing his jet lower to get a better look. Below him, the jagged forests thinned out, replaced by wide, sprawling fields and, further out—was that a road?
"Falcon-2, you seeing this?" he asked, his voice suddenly serious.
There was a pause, and then his second-in-command responded. "Copy that, Falcon Leader. It looks like… infrastructure? Roads, maybe. Some kind of development."
Mikhail brought his plane lower still, the roar of the engines echoing faintly in the thin atmosphere. What had once been nothing but alien wilderness now revealed itself to be something far more complex. The road stretched far, disappearing into the distance. And then, on the horizon, he saw it: a city.
Massive. Unfamiliar.
It was unlike anything Mikhail had ever seen. The buildings stretched high, made of some strange, dark material that gleamed dully in the light of the two moons. It was old—ancient, even—but still functioning. He could see lights, movement, signs of life. But something was wrong. The air around the city crackled with energy, and the closer he got, the more he realized that the city was under attack.
"Falcon Leader to all wings," he called out, his voice urgent. "Do you see that?"
His comrades echoed his surprise. "Is that… a city? What the hell is happening down there?"
Mikhail narrowed his eyes. From this distance, it was hard to make out details, but something large was moving through the streets. Several somethings, in fact. They were enormous, towering over the buildings—massive mechanical figures, gleaming and metallic.
"Robots?" Falcon-3 asked incredulously. "What the hell are those things?"
Mikhail didn't know. They looked like machines—hulking metal titans that moved with a terrifying, mechanical grace. And they weren't just walking aimlessly. They were attacking. The city below was being ravaged, explosions lighting up the skyline as the massive robots tore through the streets, sending debris flying in all directions.
"Falcon Leader, we've got movement below," one of his wingmen called out. "Do we come close and take photos ?"
"Negative," Mikhail ordered, his voice firm. "We're pulling back. We don't know what the hell's down there."
Before he could turn his jet around, the sky lit up.
