Maxim didn't wait for a translation. He clicked the safety off. In this world, his "vityaz" spirit wouldn't come from a sword or a prophecy, but from the cold lead in his pouch and the tactical training of a world that had forgotten how to believe in dragons.
The lead rider, a woman with silver hair and eyes like polished emeralds, pulled up a few meters away. She didn't speak; she raised a hand, and a ball of white fire began to form in her palm.
Maxim didn’t believe in magic until a stray mortar round at the training grounds didn’t explode—it opened.
One moment he was diving into a muddy trench in the outskirts of Omsk; the next, he was face-down in violet grass that smelled like ozone and old parchment. His Kalashnikov was still clutched in his hands, but the weight felt different. The steel was shimmering with a faint, pulsing blue light.