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Elrinn's Ring?
Ple-Sen
Posts from The Empire of Reimia (3)
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Ple-Sen
Ment
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Actually, I don't see anything wrong with that...
Arandor
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Empire of Cuckolds
Be strong. Believe
Heroist
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Elrina's ring?
I wanted to elaborate on her descendants, but it didn't really fit, maybe I'll do it sometime later.
Briefly, on the marquis's side, they all live in Erathia, although many died after the Ishikans took power.
On Elrina's side, in Larian, there's an adoptive family of ordinary workers, plus a great-granddaughter who fought on the side of the republic.
And Tylen became a vegetable on Orion's second mission against the Soul Eaters, and his allies finished him off so he wouldn't suffer.
Whatever
Небо
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Empire of cuckolds
Небо – мольбы не ждёт
Небо – угроз не слышит
Небо – ведёт особый счёт
Небо – тебя найдёт
Небо – угроз не слышит
Небо – ведёт особый счёт
Небо – тебя найдёт
По вопросам модерации: [email protected]
Ple-Sen
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And Tylen turned into a vegetable on the second mission of Orion against the soul eaters, and his allies finished him off so he wouldn't suffer.
Happy Life
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Until the end, Latro took on every possible assignment: both specialized and field operations. Command didn't clear him for all of them, and physically he couldn't make it to every single one—sometimes returning to camp and collapsing from exhaustion due to wounds or lack of sleep—but he still gave many hundreds of percent.
And yet, the loss of acquaintances and friends proved colossal. He hadn't known all of them closely in school, but on the front, that deficiency was immediately corrected; service on the cutting edge quickly revealed who each person truly was, and everyone turned out to be wonderful in some way, funny in others, reliable in still others; some revealed an amazing potential, and many were so professional and disciplined. Unfortunately, they died in every new operation, and some completely reduced Latro's efforts to dust by committing selfish acts off the battlefield fueled by the desperation of war.
But he still hoped. Not knowing what lay ahead, he tried to bring it closer with his own hands as quickly as possible, wishing to personally ensure the functionality of the parts in his mechanism, trying to prevent them from breaking in time—this was how he tried to veil from himself the fact that, in reality, where he failed to act, his former acquaintances, and now friends, were dying, not to mention his classmates. And then, when he heard the official announcement over the radio, and when everyone shouted in victory—some out of adrenaline-fueled joy, some out of relief—Latro leaned against the wall; for a minute he became terribly weak, his vision dimmed, his breathing quickened, and he broke into a heavy sweat. Surely it was just a prolonged onset of allergies that year, albeit arriving a bit early, but hitting him hard in combination with the strain. That is what he decided for himself, trying to push images of former comrades out of his head. But the good news prevailed: until then, the guy had fought solely on the thought that this war must first and foremost be endured and won at any cost, a cost one should not dwell upon during the process, but the established fact of victory finally stamped the official obituary for the current moment. Latro stopped counting the dead quite quickly. He remembered only faces, associatively recalling names, and each of those faces now stood before him, while he was temporarily painfully blind to the real world. He didn't remember it then, but at that moment he doubled over and fell to the floor, sobbing in a fetal position for some time until he lost consciousness.
He woke up after a while in the same spot—no one had found him or brought him around; besides, there was hardly anyone left to do so.
- So many two-hundreds, fuck, three-hundreds are just tons, you hit him with a fukhas, fuck, and he hits back at you, one guy fuck got split in half fuck, another had his leg torn off, the third fuck just like that with the fourth just fuck mowed down fuck while they were running to the entrance fuck, the rest... - apparently, an official monologue by an unknown soldier to some reporter, heard nearby, was interrupted by a loud alarm and preparations for the next phase.
By the second round, Latro had already burned out. He still went wherever he could, but now with only one goal—to take as many scumbags with him to the grave as possible. He could often be seen both in the thick of battle and as part of small infiltration groups whose goal was to inflict maximum damage on unprotected enemies at the right moment. However, after another reorganization into a tank battalion, this almost stopped. He had to find other pleasures on the battlefield: a juicy burst into infantry, getting behind an enemy tank and piercing it with a shell, tossing a napalm bomb into an enemy camp—any combat task was limited only by imagination, which is in no short supply when you are fueled from within by grim malice.
///
After the war ended, he remained in the army for some time. Serious conflicts had ceased, but there were many small local ones, flaring up on a constant and natural basis for the empire, which he worked through. By this point, he had completely withdrawn into himself, spending the little free time he had left on relentless training of body and mind. After several years, he concluded that personal skills are the best thing to invest time and effort in; if all is well, they stay with you until the moment of your death.
However, despite this, he didn't feel happy, nor even capable of living in principle. Such an existence as a hunting dog of the empire, which they were prepared for from day one, filled life no more and no better than picking apples in his home village.
Finally, during another operation, he felt a new crisis. It was a cleanup of a settlement swarming with terrorist rebels in a rocky gorge. Their forces were very limited, so the plan was for a small handful of people to penetrate the village and eliminate the leader while a tank distracted and blocked the enemies from the other side. But in reality, it turned out differently: either command miscalculated or intentionally kept quiet about it, but there were far more enemies and they were better armed. Ultimately, this attack was only meant to buy time until the main forces arrived, possibly at a lower cost, but it would be whatever happened.
And then—some random fool jumped out and fired a homemade-looking rifle at the one-hundred-and-fifty-ton machine, after which he froze in horror, watching as the turret slowly and with a hum rotated toward him, its barrel lowering exactly to his face. He screamed, dropped his weapon, and ran away through the alleys, while the tank drove straight after him, smashing and sweeping shacks like matchboxes. The little man wailed, stumbled, got up, ran again, and behind him thundered a huge, merciless monster.
Over the radio, the cries of his comrades asking for reinforcements could be heard. Somewhere in Latro's chest, a forgotten, painfully familiar feeling stirred. He just wanted to have some fun and not waste ammunition needlessly, but for some reason, he felt an emotional response—something that hadn't happened in quite a long time.
He shuddered and shook his head, throwing out the mental trash. And does it even matter, essentially? Another operation where command puts its pawns before the fact of death; since the last war, nothing has changed, we live-we endure. He wouldn't be able to save them anyway; it would be much more profitable now to wait for the end of the fray, when our people are neutralized and the worms crawl out into the air, and then work from the sky on the fools huddled at his former position, whose coordinates he knows.
The screams over the radio became increasingly desperate. For some reason, these parodies of soldiers could not die while maintaining radio silence. However, this was even beneficial—blinded by cruelty against a panicking opponent, the poorly disciplined rebels would further lose vigilance, which is always good.
The little man before him was cornered. He ran into an alley between two shacks, hoping to slip through, but didn't immediately realize that there was an insurmountable dead end at the end. He turned around frantically—and saw how the tank had already nestled between the houses at the exit, turning its turret exactly toward his nook. Inside, Latro stopped his hand halfway to the control panel, pondering which weapon to use. Initially, saving main-caliber shells was planned, but now, on this amusing mini-proving ground, the idea of blasting from the cannon at such a convenient target already seemed interesting enough. He touched the instrument panel.
- Pshhhhh....pshhhh...mom come and take me away, pshhh...
The young man clicked his tongue in irritation and reached for the machine gun—damn it, he'd need that shell later, and besides, it would be too noisy, and the fun was questionable.
- Pshhhhh...her majesty, help!.. pshhhh .... lord, mom-mom, boys aaa! pshhh! somebody! pshhh!...
The pilot's hand changed movement, grabbing the throttle. With a deafening roar, the behemoth raced away, leaving the unconscious militant in proud solitude in a puddle of his own urine.
At the other end of the gorge, meanwhile, the infantry was completely suppressed. An attempt to penetrate the facility turned into an ambush, and there were no chances to either move forward or retreat. A handful of imperial soldiers found themselves pinned on a tiny patch of such unreliable cover that half the unit had already fallen, and the others couldn't stick their heads out. Moreover—the enemy had already regrouped and was preparing for the final cleanup. Jokes didn't last long against these monkeys.
- We shall not shame the Mother-Empress! Now get up, boys! - with tears in his eyes, a young officer, teeth chattering and voice cracking, timidly tried to rouse his broken personnel, although it was clear that soon his self-control would also reach its end. - We will all die to the last man! For the Empress, for the Fatherland! Remember her beautiful face and magnificent voice!
A bullet whistled past; the commander fell like he'd been mown down, screaming and curling up on the ground. At some point, he felt that he howled so loudly that the earth trembled beneath him. But the vibration didn't stop; it grew stronger, and then—a voice of incredible beauty and melody reached his ears:
- Silently and without a trace
Our fate quietly changes.
And in the near future my heart will beat faster.
When you feel anxiety,
I will immediately run and hug you tight.
Wherever you are... it doesn't matter where...
Between the shacks, right at the rebels' position, a steel behemoth drove out slowly. It was pink-and-white, with several types of intimidatingly protruding weapons pointing in different directions, decorated with pictures of flowers and hearts. Along the entire side was a painting: a curvaceous blonde smiles smugly and condescendingly extends her palm for a kiss, but in her other hand behind her back, a poorly hidden butcher's cleaver is visible. The girl is dressed in an evening gown, with a slit on one leg revealing a fleshy silk thigh, upon which, following the curve, the name of the tank is written in an interesting font combining both girlish aesthetics and sharp, painful-looking forms: "Lotta". Integrated speakers were visible along the sides of the tank, from which played one of the incredibly touching hits performed by the Empress herself.
- ...I will fly high! - the pilot's raspy voice sang along with the loudspeakers, after which a rhythmic instrumental break without words followed, which Latro punctuated with an equally rhythmic burst from the machine gun at the enemies.
"How could I forget? About what is truly important..." - he thought with a smile, sweeping away the trench along with the enemies entrenched there, grinding them into mush with his tracks and catching a burst on the hull intended for the infantry lying in a ditch with the unlucky little officer.
Not seeing or feeling this, Latro sat as satisfied as a cat before pancakes. Only after the battle would the realization come to him that he had done everything he ever desired from military life in one go: a dramatic entrance, armor cover, sweeping with tracks. Since childhood, he loved listening to and reading such stories, and he always wanted to be in the place of such a desperate and unstoppable hero.
It would later turn out that the suicide bomber who lost consciousness in the alley was indeed the leader of this cell, and he would be easily captured alive before the main forces arrived. And upon completion of the operation and return to base, Captain Deckt would submit an application for discharge. Command wouldn't like it much, but considering his merits of recent years, as well as his mental state, they would not refuse.
///
A scrawny, short lad timidly shuffled down the corridor, clutching a couple of textbooks to his chest. Thick horn-rimmed glasses sat on his nose, his gaze was fixed on the floor, and a heavy sigh full of hopelessness echoed from him through the empty space. Suddenly, a door to his side swung open sharply and a young man stepped out who seemingly had ended up in this school from the street by complete chance. Two meters tall and a meter wide, black suit and shirt unbuttoned at several buttons, a chain around his neck, a scar on his cheek.
- Yo, Kohai, - he slammed the door, which said "Student Council," and placed a heavy stone palm on the freshman's shoulder so that the latter sank slightly. - Let's go.
The unfortunate student glanced at the door that could have saved him, but it was already too late.
- I... uh... I need to go to a lecture, I'm there, well... - he mumbled.
- You'll make it, - the man dragged him along. - I'll show you one thing, kid. You'll like it; you won't be able to pull yourself away by your ears afterward. Everyone likes it. Pha! - throwing his head back, he laughed crudely.
He led the boy outside and took him behind the hangars, ignoring his disjointed babbling.
- Now then... - the man looked around to make sure no one was nearby, unbuttoned his jacket, and reached with both hands toward his belt.
- This... May I go... - the student's eyes widened, his mouth opened in surprise, he turned pale and his legs shook. It was a good thing he was pressed against the rough trunk of a tree, or he would have fallen like he'd been mown down. - P-please, uncle...
- Heh! Well, impressive? Know what it's for? - the man brought the barrel closer to the student's face. - Look at this one! You've probably never even seen such a thing?
The student swallowed hard, unable to tear his gaze away from the imposing weapon dangling in front of his nose.
- N-no... - one of his small hands mechanically reached for the man's toy, but jerked back at the last moment. - I, well...
- Want to hold it, kid? - the man grinned. - Just hold tight, and better use both hands right away.
Kohai took hold of the offered barrel, his heart beating a thousand times a minute.
- It's so hot! - he marveled. - B-but how is that possible?.. Could it be... just used?.. And what is this tart smell penetrating into my very core?
- Pha! It's in use right now! - the man in black chuckled. - This is an extension of my body, of course it will be hot. And don't let the smell bother you; it's ours, masculine, meaning the weapon is combat-ready. You'll like it very soon.
He looked around again and, seeing that no one saw them, grinned.
- Now I'll tell you what needs to be done...
Half a minute later, the student of the Reima Military Academy took a handful of small coins and tossed them into the air. "Senpai" whipped out a second revolver, tossed both up himself, after which he drew third and fourth barrels, emptied both their cylinders at the falling coins, returned them to holsters, caught the first two weapons, and in one motion fired both their cylinders into a single point on a weathered tree.
- Heh! Well... how... - he couldn't hold it back, started snickering, then coughed. - Oh mother empress...
The man blew his nose into a handkerchief, then took out a pack of cigarettes and smoked feverishly.
- So... - he glanced at the student—the latter looked at him with an open mouth, then at the fragments of coins on the ground, then at the shot tree. - Want to be able to do that too?
- Yes, sir! - the lad barked.
The man smiled fatherly.
- Then come to my additional course starting Monday, - he again heavily slapped his palm on the boy's shoulder. - And tell your classmates. Well and the rest of the class, of course, too. Alright, bye, kid! I think I'll see you again.
Latro put all weapons back in their places, buttoned his jacket, and departed, leaving the underclassman sitting on the ground, leaning against the tree and breathing heavily.
Starting Monday, he was taking over a relatively new separate position as an instructor for the operation and maintenance of combat equipment. As events of the last few years showed, the empire required far more qualified and experienced personnel in this field than were currently available. As for the additional course—that was a personal gift from the Empress to him, as one of the heroes of the war that ended several years ago. Leaving, he glanced toward a small sanctuary in the corner of the yard that he had built himself. Fenced off by spent shells like a hedge, another enormous revolver protruded from the ground, non-functional, with a bandana and an empty bandolier draped crosswise over it. Latro happened to be the only one to whom Gengoro managed to pass his mastery, but not the last. Practicing relentlessly all his life, and even more—taking senpai's techniques as a basis—Latro supplemented and strengthened the style with his own ideas and methods, including elements of the shooter's spiritual development.
///
A lovely summer day, a breeze caressing the hair, greenery, birds chirping away. Latro walked slowly, enjoying the native landscapes. Finally, he reached his home—little had changed, except that paint had peeled in places and some boards had been replaced. A strong wind blew; miniature girlish panties flew off the clothesline, traveled several meters, and slapped him right in the face.
- Yes... - he muttered, returning the underwear to the line. - Little has changed.
He felt that he was being watched, turned sharply toward the house—something flashed in the window. Smiling, Latro entered the house. Inside, too, little had changed; everything looked practically the same, something clattered and fell somewhere, fragments of voices were heard here and there. The young man took a few steps and turned into the kitchen—right in front of him stood a girl about six years old with her back to him, concentratedly scrubbing the floor with a mop twice larger than herself.
- Guess who, - Latro rasped in her ear, simultaneously covering her eyes with rough palms.
The girl didn't answer. She froze like she was rooted to the spot, then trembled, then fluttered out of the "embrace" and stared at Latro in horror.
- It's just me... - he took a step toward her and she screamed piercingly.
Her shriek brought a crowd into the kitchen: one elderly man and several dozen women of various ages. Some looked at him with surprise, others with anger, some with fear.
- Hands off, you scoundrel! Bandit! Demon! - the little man shouted, grabbing a table knife and holding it out in trembling hands.
- Eeeeeee?... - Latro drawled disappointedly with a miserable look, scratching the back of his head and raising his palms conciliatorily. - I shouldn't have come in...
One of the girls beamed and threw her arms around his neck.
- Big brother!
A huge number of emotions appeared on the sisters' faces: happiness, tears, disbelief, relief. One by one they separated from the crowd and rushed to hug him. Latro exerted all his effort not to fall to his knees under the weight of his relatives.
- B-but... we thought you died in the war... - the father dropped the knife and covered his face; tears flowed between his trembling palms.
- I'm still young, it's too early for me, - the son joked.
- And you didn't even write to us once in all these years! - shouted a stern sister.
- Well, uh, there was no time...
- W...what happened to your face?.. - wondered a quiet sister.
- Beard.
- What happened to your fingers?! - wailed a hysterical sister.
- Didn't wear gloves in winter. No matter, I never liked them anyway.
- You have scars all over your body... - wept a soft sister. - So this is what war does to people...
- There are far more scars from training here than from the war.
- Big brother, I didn't think that... ah... you, ah!.. would be so glad to hug me... - heavily breathed a sensual sister pressing against him.
- This is my gun! And learn already to secure your underwear on the line with clothespins!
- And what is this tasteless thing around your neck?! - protested a fashionista sister.
- Women wouldn't understand.
- And why do you smell of tobacco and alcohol? - the responsible sister put her hands on her hips.
- P-passengers in the train breathed it out...
- Hurray! When I grow up, I'll shoot people too! - fooled around a boyish teenage sister.
- Do your homework! Clean your room!
- And is it true that you served with Imir-khan? - asked a fox-like sister with burning eyes. - Can you introduce us?
- You want me to take my underage, but already sufficiently mature sister to a host club? Pass.
- I-I-I would also like t-t-to see brother together w-w-with Imir-sama... - timidly squeaked the bespectacled sister who illustrates ikigai pictures.
- As much as I would be glad of such a proposal at any other time, so much do I understand that something is wrong with your head.
- P...please forgive me, - bowed her head in tears the six-year-old sister, - I am so ashamed.
- Don't worry; as you can see—you're not the only one who didn't recognize me. Besides, you were still a little thing.
Latro patted her on the head.
- There is only one thing I don't understand... What are you all doing here? - he looked around and saw that decorations were hanging everywhere and some additional work was being done. - Did someone die?
- Was born!.. - said the recovered old man. He approached Latro—as he moved, the sisters themselves cleared a path for him, as if sensing his aura. He stopped and stared into his eyes with a frown. - My son! W-w-was born!
The grandfather smiled and grabbed Latro in his huge hands. The sisters laughingly placed a funny cap and glasses with a nose on his head.
- Is this how you treat a veteran, a war hero? - grumbled Latro, but the sister pressed the artificial nose, and it made a funny honk. - I see.
He felt as if he had never left.
- We gather every year on your birthday in the hope that one day you might somehow fantastically appear at it, - said the sad sister in black heavily. - Yes, it sounds stupid, but for us it became a family ritual. But I didn't believe it was possible.
Latro thought for a few moments.
- Birthday?.. I forgot what that is... I'm here today by chance; first vacation I've taken in years. You are very lucky.
- Who is unlucky is you! - the sadist sister said insolently. - Some war won't let you get away from us!
- Believe me, I tried...
- And where have you been, and what did you see, tell us, just tell us!.. - all voices merged into one.
The conversations continued and continued until Latro lost consciousness. The last thing he felt with a smile before the loss of reality was the feeling of returning home.
And yet, the loss of acquaintances and friends proved colossal. He hadn't known all of them closely in school, but on the front, that deficiency was immediately corrected; service on the cutting edge quickly revealed who each person truly was, and everyone turned out to be wonderful in some way, funny in others, reliable in still others; some revealed an amazing potential, and many were so professional and disciplined. Unfortunately, they died in every new operation, and some completely reduced Latro's efforts to dust by committing selfish acts off the battlefield fueled by the desperation of war.
But he still hoped. Not knowing what lay ahead, he tried to bring it closer with his own hands as quickly as possible, wishing to personally ensure the functionality of the parts in his mechanism, trying to prevent them from breaking in time—this was how he tried to veil from himself the fact that, in reality, where he failed to act, his former acquaintances, and now friends, were dying, not to mention his classmates. And then, when he heard the official announcement over the radio, and when everyone shouted in victory—some out of adrenaline-fueled joy, some out of relief—Latro leaned against the wall; for a minute he became terribly weak, his vision dimmed, his breathing quickened, and he broke into a heavy sweat. Surely it was just a prolonged onset of allergies that year, albeit arriving a bit early, but hitting him hard in combination with the strain. That is what he decided for himself, trying to push images of former comrades out of his head. But the good news prevailed: until then, the guy had fought solely on the thought that this war must first and foremost be endured and won at any cost, a cost one should not dwell upon during the process, but the established fact of victory finally stamped the official obituary for the current moment. Latro stopped counting the dead quite quickly. He remembered only faces, associatively recalling names, and each of those faces now stood before him, while he was temporarily painfully blind to the real world. He didn't remember it then, but at that moment he doubled over and fell to the floor, sobbing in a fetal position for some time until he lost consciousness.
He woke up after a while in the same spot—no one had found him or brought him around; besides, there was hardly anyone left to do so.
- So many two-hundreds, fuck, three-hundreds are just tons, you hit him with a fukhas, fuck, and he hits back at you, one guy fuck got split in half fuck, another had his leg torn off, the third fuck just like that with the fourth just fuck mowed down fuck while they were running to the entrance fuck, the rest... - apparently, an official monologue by an unknown soldier to some reporter, heard nearby, was interrupted by a loud alarm and preparations for the next phase.
By the second round, Latro had already burned out. He still went wherever he could, but now with only one goal—to take as many scumbags with him to the grave as possible. He could often be seen both in the thick of battle and as part of small infiltration groups whose goal was to inflict maximum damage on unprotected enemies at the right moment. However, after another reorganization into a tank battalion, this almost stopped. He had to find other pleasures on the battlefield: a juicy burst into infantry, getting behind an enemy tank and piercing it with a shell, tossing a napalm bomb into an enemy camp—any combat task was limited only by imagination, which is in no short supply when you are fueled from within by grim malice.
///
After the war ended, he remained in the army for some time. Serious conflicts had ceased, but there were many small local ones, flaring up on a constant and natural basis for the empire, which he worked through. By this point, he had completely withdrawn into himself, spending the little free time he had left on relentless training of body and mind. After several years, he concluded that personal skills are the best thing to invest time and effort in; if all is well, they stay with you until the moment of your death.
However, despite this, he didn't feel happy, nor even capable of living in principle. Such an existence as a hunting dog of the empire, which they were prepared for from day one, filled life no more and no better than picking apples in his home village.
Finally, during another operation, he felt a new crisis. It was a cleanup of a settlement swarming with terrorist rebels in a rocky gorge. Their forces were very limited, so the plan was for a small handful of people to penetrate the village and eliminate the leader while a tank distracted and blocked the enemies from the other side. But in reality, it turned out differently: either command miscalculated or intentionally kept quiet about it, but there were far more enemies and they were better armed. Ultimately, this attack was only meant to buy time until the main forces arrived, possibly at a lower cost, but it would be whatever happened.
And then—some random fool jumped out and fired a homemade-looking rifle at the one-hundred-and-fifty-ton machine, after which he froze in horror, watching as the turret slowly and with a hum rotated toward him, its barrel lowering exactly to his face. He screamed, dropped his weapon, and ran away through the alleys, while the tank drove straight after him, smashing and sweeping shacks like matchboxes. The little man wailed, stumbled, got up, ran again, and behind him thundered a huge, merciless monster.
Over the radio, the cries of his comrades asking for reinforcements could be heard. Somewhere in Latro's chest, a forgotten, painfully familiar feeling stirred. He just wanted to have some fun and not waste ammunition needlessly, but for some reason, he felt an emotional response—something that hadn't happened in quite a long time.
He shuddered and shook his head, throwing out the mental trash. And does it even matter, essentially? Another operation where command puts its pawns before the fact of death; since the last war, nothing has changed, we live-we endure. He wouldn't be able to save them anyway; it would be much more profitable now to wait for the end of the fray, when our people are neutralized and the worms crawl out into the air, and then work from the sky on the fools huddled at his former position, whose coordinates he knows.
The screams over the radio became increasingly desperate. For some reason, these parodies of soldiers could not die while maintaining radio silence. However, this was even beneficial—blinded by cruelty against a panicking opponent, the poorly disciplined rebels would further lose vigilance, which is always good.
The little man before him was cornered. He ran into an alley between two shacks, hoping to slip through, but didn't immediately realize that there was an insurmountable dead end at the end. He turned around frantically—and saw how the tank had already nestled between the houses at the exit, turning its turret exactly toward his nook. Inside, Latro stopped his hand halfway to the control panel, pondering which weapon to use. Initially, saving main-caliber shells was planned, but now, on this amusing mini-proving ground, the idea of blasting from the cannon at such a convenient target already seemed interesting enough. He touched the instrument panel.
- Pshhhhh....pshhhh...mom come and take me away, pshhh...
The young man clicked his tongue in irritation and reached for the machine gun—damn it, he'd need that shell later, and besides, it would be too noisy, and the fun was questionable.
- Pshhhhh...her majesty, help!.. pshhhh .... lord, mom-mom, boys aaa! pshhh! somebody! pshhh!...
The pilot's hand changed movement, grabbing the throttle. With a deafening roar, the behemoth raced away, leaving the unconscious militant in proud solitude in a puddle of his own urine.
At the other end of the gorge, meanwhile, the infantry was completely suppressed. An attempt to penetrate the facility turned into an ambush, and there were no chances to either move forward or retreat. A handful of imperial soldiers found themselves pinned on a tiny patch of such unreliable cover that half the unit had already fallen, and the others couldn't stick their heads out. Moreover—the enemy had already regrouped and was preparing for the final cleanup. Jokes didn't last long against these monkeys.
- We shall not shame the Mother-Empress! Now get up, boys! - with tears in his eyes, a young officer, teeth chattering and voice cracking, timidly tried to rouse his broken personnel, although it was clear that soon his self-control would also reach its end. - We will all die to the last man! For the Empress, for the Fatherland! Remember her beautiful face and magnificent voice!
A bullet whistled past; the commander fell like he'd been mown down, screaming and curling up on the ground. At some point, he felt that he howled so loudly that the earth trembled beneath him. But the vibration didn't stop; it grew stronger, and then—a voice of incredible beauty and melody reached his ears:
- Silently and without a trace
Our fate quietly changes.
And in the near future my heart will beat faster.
When you feel anxiety,
I will immediately run and hug you tight.
Wherever you are... it doesn't matter where...
Between the shacks, right at the rebels' position, a steel behemoth drove out slowly. It was pink-and-white, with several types of intimidatingly protruding weapons pointing in different directions, decorated with pictures of flowers and hearts. Along the entire side was a painting: a curvaceous blonde smiles smugly and condescendingly extends her palm for a kiss, but in her other hand behind her back, a poorly hidden butcher's cleaver is visible. The girl is dressed in an evening gown, with a slit on one leg revealing a fleshy silk thigh, upon which, following the curve, the name of the tank is written in an interesting font combining both girlish aesthetics and sharp, painful-looking forms: "Lotta". Integrated speakers were visible along the sides of the tank, from which played one of the incredibly touching hits performed by the Empress herself.
- ...I will fly high! - the pilot's raspy voice sang along with the loudspeakers, after which a rhythmic instrumental break without words followed, which Latro punctuated with an equally rhythmic burst from the machine gun at the enemies.
"How could I forget? About what is truly important..." - he thought with a smile, sweeping away the trench along with the enemies entrenched there, grinding them into mush with his tracks and catching a burst on the hull intended for the infantry lying in a ditch with the unlucky little officer.
Not seeing or feeling this, Latro sat as satisfied as a cat before pancakes. Only after the battle would the realization come to him that he had done everything he ever desired from military life in one go: a dramatic entrance, armor cover, sweeping with tracks. Since childhood, he loved listening to and reading such stories, and he always wanted to be in the place of such a desperate and unstoppable hero.
It would later turn out that the suicide bomber who lost consciousness in the alley was indeed the leader of this cell, and he would be easily captured alive before the main forces arrived. And upon completion of the operation and return to base, Captain Deckt would submit an application for discharge. Command wouldn't like it much, but considering his merits of recent years, as well as his mental state, they would not refuse.
///
A scrawny, short lad timidly shuffled down the corridor, clutching a couple of textbooks to his chest. Thick horn-rimmed glasses sat on his nose, his gaze was fixed on the floor, and a heavy sigh full of hopelessness echoed from him through the empty space. Suddenly, a door to his side swung open sharply and a young man stepped out who seemingly had ended up in this school from the street by complete chance. Two meters tall and a meter wide, black suit and shirt unbuttoned at several buttons, a chain around his neck, a scar on his cheek.
- Yo, Kohai, - he slammed the door, which said "Student Council," and placed a heavy stone palm on the freshman's shoulder so that the latter sank slightly. - Let's go.
The unfortunate student glanced at the door that could have saved him, but it was already too late.
- I... uh... I need to go to a lecture, I'm there, well... - he mumbled.
- You'll make it, - the man dragged him along. - I'll show you one thing, kid. You'll like it; you won't be able to pull yourself away by your ears afterward. Everyone likes it. Pha! - throwing his head back, he laughed crudely.
He led the boy outside and took him behind the hangars, ignoring his disjointed babbling.
- Now then... - the man looked around to make sure no one was nearby, unbuttoned his jacket, and reached with both hands toward his belt.
- This... May I go... - the student's eyes widened, his mouth opened in surprise, he turned pale and his legs shook. It was a good thing he was pressed against the rough trunk of a tree, or he would have fallen like he'd been mown down. - P-please, uncle...
- Heh! Well, impressive? Know what it's for? - the man brought the barrel closer to the student's face. - Look at this one! You've probably never even seen such a thing?
The student swallowed hard, unable to tear his gaze away from the imposing weapon dangling in front of his nose.
- N-no... - one of his small hands mechanically reached for the man's toy, but jerked back at the last moment. - I, well...
- Want to hold it, kid? - the man grinned. - Just hold tight, and better use both hands right away.
Kohai took hold of the offered barrel, his heart beating a thousand times a minute.
- It's so hot! - he marveled. - B-but how is that possible?.. Could it be... just used?.. And what is this tart smell penetrating into my very core?
- Pha! It's in use right now! - the man in black chuckled. - This is an extension of my body, of course it will be hot. And don't let the smell bother you; it's ours, masculine, meaning the weapon is combat-ready. You'll like it very soon.
He looked around again and, seeing that no one saw them, grinned.
- Now I'll tell you what needs to be done...
Half a minute later, the student of the Reima Military Academy took a handful of small coins and tossed them into the air. "Senpai" whipped out a second revolver, tossed both up himself, after which he drew third and fourth barrels, emptied both their cylinders at the falling coins, returned them to holsters, caught the first two weapons, and in one motion fired both their cylinders into a single point on a weathered tree.
- Heh! Well... how... - he couldn't hold it back, started snickering, then coughed. - Oh mother empress...
The man blew his nose into a handkerchief, then took out a pack of cigarettes and smoked feverishly.
- So... - he glanced at the student—the latter looked at him with an open mouth, then at the fragments of coins on the ground, then at the shot tree. - Want to be able to do that too?
- Yes, sir! - the lad barked.
The man smiled fatherly.
- Then come to my additional course starting Monday, - he again heavily slapped his palm on the boy's shoulder. - And tell your classmates. Well and the rest of the class, of course, too. Alright, bye, kid! I think I'll see you again.
Latro put all weapons back in their places, buttoned his jacket, and departed, leaving the underclassman sitting on the ground, leaning against the tree and breathing heavily.
Starting Monday, he was taking over a relatively new separate position as an instructor for the operation and maintenance of combat equipment. As events of the last few years showed, the empire required far more qualified and experienced personnel in this field than were currently available. As for the additional course—that was a personal gift from the Empress to him, as one of the heroes of the war that ended several years ago. Leaving, he glanced toward a small sanctuary in the corner of the yard that he had built himself. Fenced off by spent shells like a hedge, another enormous revolver protruded from the ground, non-functional, with a bandana and an empty bandolier draped crosswise over it. Latro happened to be the only one to whom Gengoro managed to pass his mastery, but not the last. Practicing relentlessly all his life, and even more—taking senpai's techniques as a basis—Latro supplemented and strengthened the style with his own ideas and methods, including elements of the shooter's spiritual development.
///
A lovely summer day, a breeze caressing the hair, greenery, birds chirping away. Latro walked slowly, enjoying the native landscapes. Finally, he reached his home—little had changed, except that paint had peeled in places and some boards had been replaced. A strong wind blew; miniature girlish panties flew off the clothesline, traveled several meters, and slapped him right in the face.
- Yes... - he muttered, returning the underwear to the line. - Little has changed.
He felt that he was being watched, turned sharply toward the house—something flashed in the window. Smiling, Latro entered the house. Inside, too, little had changed; everything looked practically the same, something clattered and fell somewhere, fragments of voices were heard here and there. The young man took a few steps and turned into the kitchen—right in front of him stood a girl about six years old with her back to him, concentratedly scrubbing the floor with a mop twice larger than herself.
- Guess who, - Latro rasped in her ear, simultaneously covering her eyes with rough palms.
The girl didn't answer. She froze like she was rooted to the spot, then trembled, then fluttered out of the "embrace" and stared at Latro in horror.
- It's just me... - he took a step toward her and she screamed piercingly.
Her shriek brought a crowd into the kitchen: one elderly man and several dozen women of various ages. Some looked at him with surprise, others with anger, some with fear.
- Hands off, you scoundrel! Bandit! Demon! - the little man shouted, grabbing a table knife and holding it out in trembling hands.
- Eeeeeee?... - Latro drawled disappointedly with a miserable look, scratching the back of his head and raising his palms conciliatorily. - I shouldn't have come in...
One of the girls beamed and threw her arms around his neck.
- Big brother!
A huge number of emotions appeared on the sisters' faces: happiness, tears, disbelief, relief. One by one they separated from the crowd and rushed to hug him. Latro exerted all his effort not to fall to his knees under the weight of his relatives.
- B-but... we thought you died in the war... - the father dropped the knife and covered his face; tears flowed between his trembling palms.
- I'm still young, it's too early for me, - the son joked.
- And you didn't even write to us once in all these years! - shouted a stern sister.
- Well, uh, there was no time...
- W...what happened to your face?.. - wondered a quiet sister.
- Beard.
- What happened to your fingers?! - wailed a hysterical sister.
- Didn't wear gloves in winter. No matter, I never liked them anyway.
- You have scars all over your body... - wept a soft sister. - So this is what war does to people...
- There are far more scars from training here than from the war.
- Big brother, I didn't think that... ah... you, ah!.. would be so glad to hug me... - heavily breathed a sensual sister pressing against him.
- This is my gun! And learn already to secure your underwear on the line with clothespins!
- And what is this tasteless thing around your neck?! - protested a fashionista sister.
- Women wouldn't understand.
- And why do you smell of tobacco and alcohol? - the responsible sister put her hands on her hips.
- P-passengers in the train breathed it out...
- Hurray! When I grow up, I'll shoot people too! - fooled around a boyish teenage sister.
- Do your homework! Clean your room!
- And is it true that you served with Imir-khan? - asked a fox-like sister with burning eyes. - Can you introduce us?
- You want me to take my underage, but already sufficiently mature sister to a host club? Pass.
- I-I-I would also like t-t-to see brother together w-w-with Imir-sama... - timidly squeaked the bespectacled sister who illustrates ikigai pictures.
- As much as I would be glad of such a proposal at any other time, so much do I understand that something is wrong with your head.
- P...please forgive me, - bowed her head in tears the six-year-old sister, - I am so ashamed.
- Don't worry; as you can see—you're not the only one who didn't recognize me. Besides, you were still a little thing.
Latro patted her on the head.
- There is only one thing I don't understand... What are you all doing here? - he looked around and saw that decorations were hanging everywhere and some additional work was being done. - Did someone die?
- Was born!.. - said the recovered old man. He approached Latro—as he moved, the sisters themselves cleared a path for him, as if sensing his aura. He stopped and stared into his eyes with a frown. - My son! W-w-was born!
The grandfather smiled and grabbed Latro in his huge hands. The sisters laughingly placed a funny cap and glasses with a nose on his head.
- Is this how you treat a veteran, a war hero? - grumbled Latro, but the sister pressed the artificial nose, and it made a funny honk. - I see.
He felt as if he had never left.
- We gather every year on your birthday in the hope that one day you might somehow fantastically appear at it, - said the sad sister in black heavily. - Yes, it sounds stupid, but for us it became a family ritual. But I didn't believe it was possible.
Latro thought for a few moments.
- Birthday?.. I forgot what that is... I'm here today by chance; first vacation I've taken in years. You are very lucky.
- Who is unlucky is you! - the sadist sister said insolently. - Some war won't let you get away from us!
- Believe me, I tried...
- And where have you been, and what did you see, tell us, just tell us!.. - all voices merged into one.
The conversations continued and continued until Latro lost consciousness. The last thing he felt with a smile before the loss of reality was the feeling of returning home.
My sword, my trusted ally, unphased by my aspect.
kcfgogbfalgfl
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| Year xxx In the early years of its existence, besides the grand palace of the Empress in Silenthia, there was nothing remarkable; but as time went on, the second capital grew larger and larger until it eventually became the largest city in the world, both in area and population. Silenthia was the face of the empire, literally and figuratively; absolute order and cleanliness were maintained here, total control was exercised, and its main attraction was a colossal statue of the Empress, which was undoubtedly the largest structure ever built by human hands. At all levels of the state apparatus, each official was represented by a loyal crown specialist, supported and supervised by specially trained Larian dolls. Faith in the Empress becomes the basis of common sense in public consciousness, and doubting her is like being considered insane by those around you. What tyrants like Arkon and Reisen could not achieve with magic and demonology, Rinze Reim achieved with pen and ink: for decades, the Reimean Code has been updated and supplemented with new chapters, and people have slowly but surely adopted the way of thinking and behavior that its study promotes, along with the strict laws of the empire. The economic, technological, and military power of the empire left no chance for its opponents, and over the years, the political behemoth absorbed more and more surrounding countries, opening up the possibility of uniting the world under one flag. The integrity of the empire and the smooth transformation of the mentality of its population became largely possible thanks to the stability, security, and prosperity that came with the rule of the new empress. And perhaps, for an ordinary person, unburdened by deep philosophical thoughts and devoid of ambitions, this was the ideal situation; but for inquisitive people burdened with their own idealism, this life could lose all its colors, leaving no opportunities for change. With this, the history of this world comes to an end because now its future has a clear image and name – Rinze Reim. |
Ple-Sen
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A more fitting song for the epilogue:
kcfgogbfalgfl
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It’s been a while since I had to manually use an ad blocker.
Siverfale
:smile18:
Where do we go?
Where do we end up when we save the world?
Where do we end up when we save the world?
Heroist
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A more fitting song for the epilogue:
But overall, I think you're overreacting a bit. It's a perfectly decent ending for a good setting. Another destroyed world would be much worse, as would something on the level of Sonata.
Whatever
Ple-Sen
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Another devastated world offers hope for restoration, provided it isn't a complete wasteland devoid of living people. But here, there is no hope – only the demigoddess Rynze and stagnation.
Happy Life
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How I wish for a Theria, the Restorer...
My sword, my trusted ally, unphased by my aspect.
Ment
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Why is there no hope? Any stagnant world will eventually face either an internal or an external obstacle that it cannot overcome unless it adapts. But as it is, it's rather sad, but what can you do? After all, even a world a-la Orwell has certain prerequisites.