Flames flickered and steel clashed in the air, creating a deafening symphony of destruction. In the midst of a raging sea, the Stygian Nyx and its fleet were trapped in an endless battle. Sixteen ships, scattered across the stormy waters, faced twenty-two enemy vessels—more numerous and more powerful.
Fighting amidst the roar of weapons and shuddering explosions, each second felt like a century. Black smoke drifted through the air, shrouding the once-blue sky, now turned gray—as if the heavens themselves mourned this war.
Lerkov, the Admiral, stood in the command room of the Stygian Nyx, his sharp eyes fixed on the screen filled with warning signals. The roar of engines and the clanging of metal outside seemed to threaten to drown them in inescapable darkness.
“One by one, they fall,” whispered Shin, the loyal Lieutenant always by Lerkov’s side. “But we endure.”
One by one, their ships were destroyed, struck by explosions that tore through their hulls. Loyal crew members fought to their last breath—erased in an instant. Yet, despite being cornered, they never retreated. Isakov, Udaloy, Sovrevmenny, Kuznetsov, and Chapayev still stood—clinging to a hope that survived only in the flames and floating wreckage.
Lerkov looked up at the ever-darkening sky. “We must hold out just a little longer,” he said with resolute voice.
But then, without warning, a thick fog emerged. It blanketed their fleet in a strange silence. The sounds of war vanished instantly, as if the world itself had stopped spinning. Only the fog remained—dense and white—wrapping everything in stillness. Time itself seemed to pause.
They didn’t know what was happening, but it was a chance to survive, to breathe amidst the chaos. For a moment, peace embraced them—even if it was just an illusion.
Minutes passed. The fog began to fade, and what they saw before them was no longer a battlefield of blood and fire. A vast blue ocean stretched ahead, reflecting a light they didn’t recognize. This was not the world they knew. They were no longer on a brutal battlefield—but in a place far stranger, more mysterious.
Isakov, Udaloy, Sovrevmenny, Kuznetsov, and Chapayev—only five ships remained. Once covered in scars and loss, they were now left with just a fragment of their former power, operating at an average of 60%. With no clear purpose, they were stranded in an unknown world, under a foreign sky, with winds carrying a scent they had never smelled before.
Admiral Lerkov stood still, gazing at the endless horizon. “What happened?” he asked silently, but no answer came.
Only the fog remained, wrapping them in a mystery greater than war itself. Svora had called—and they, wounded and weary, were forced to follow the new fate written for them in a world they did not understand, but had no choice but to face.