Of Pride and Power - 55. Epilogue Chapter 49: “Have No Fear”

A week before the final action on January 6th, I made my way alone toward the refugee encampment just outside Moscow. Dressed in rags, with sores on my feet and an emaciated frame, I aimed to blend in as one of the countless refugees. In the distance, I saw a massive blue-hued dome enveloping the city with an unearthly glow—a manifestation not of phantom energy but of another exotic particle. My ability confirmed it was a graviton bubble, identical to what a scout drone had detected months ago during reconnaissance on Moscow.

In my timeline of 1934, Soviet physicists Dmitry Blokhintsev and Fyodor Galperin theorized the existence of a massless particle, the graviton, which they believed could explain gravity, just as photons are the fundamental particle of light. Though direct detection of gravitons remained elusive, it’s likely the Russian Federation advanced their theories by the late 21st century with access to advanced cores. A graviton bubble, based on prevailing gravitational theories, would create a nearly impenetrable barrier, closing off external space and potentially affecting the dimension of time through dilation. The drone’s images confirmed this effect through frequency shifts, revealing that the speed of light wasn’t constant inside the dome. Russian forces evidently possessed technology on par with the Western Charter. Due to this, without precise spatial coordinates—since space-time itself was warped—attempts to penetrate the dome with an Alcubierre drive would be futile. So, I had to access Moscow’s unguarded area: the refugee camp outside the city in this dangerous, final mission.

As the frigid winds whipped across the wastelands surrounding the city, I couldn’t help but marvel at the refugees’ resilience. For months, they had endured relentless cold and scarce food, gathering here with little more than the companionship of fellow survivors. Flickers of firelights and faint sounds of holiday songs offered some comfort. Driven by dwindling hope, over a million refugees huddled under makeshift coverings, clinging to words of salvation from Orthodox priests.

I arrived at their camp cloaked in a tattered bear pelt, my red hair dyed brown, and my appearance roughened by facial hair and bruises. To make my disguise convincing, I survived on a meager 500 calories per day in December, and Robert had administered extra androgen to stimulate hair growth. Robert wasn’t squeamish about inflicting cuts and bruises for the mission, though there was no pleasure in this particular pain. Despite arguments from Robert and some Royal Marines to accompany me, I insisted on going alone—any companions would shatter the illusion.

For days, I moved unnoticed, gaining trust by posing as a serf and sharing my “backstory,” complete with my “Lord’s” given name, spoken in the imperfect Russian of a low-born refugee. Eventually, I was accepted as another face in the crowd and assigned to a five-person food gathering team. We hunted some small animal game, capturing at least 30 lemmings per day. Larger game, like reindeer, counted as a full quota. My abilities allowed me to secure two reindeer in four days, earning respect without drawing undue attention. Still, like all serfs, my rations were limited to scraps and thin broth.

On the morning of our planned attack, I lined up with other refugees, awaiting our allotted ten minutes by the communal fire. Just as I neared the heat, the priests announced their meager Christmas offerings: hay to help retain body warmth, a commodity more available than precious blankets. They also promised thin wheat porridge, a rare luxury to the starving refugees who saw it as manna from heaven.

As was customary, the Boyars—those remnants of Russia’s feudal hierarchy—received their portions first. Despite material wealth, they lacked adequate food supplies and thus received priority. Clad in furs, they chewed on reindeer jerky as the priests brought them hot bowls of porridge, ceremoniously. Meanwhile, the serfs, hollow-eyed and clad in tatters, watched as the Boyars savored their meals. Many Boyars were members of the Russian faction sent back from my era, protected by Czar Ivan for practical reasons. Yet, the serfs saw only a deepening injustice, and resentment simmered beneath the surface—a tension I intended to exploit.

Throughout the day, sacks of grain disappeared from the priests’ carts. Using my displacement ability—silently and swiftly—I ensured each missing sack was not acutely noticed as cauldrons of porridge ran out. Lines of refugees, already strained, shifted to other distribution points as murmurs of discontent spread. The serfs were promised enough for all, but they watched their rations dwindle into warm water and suspicion mounted. I subtly directed these suspicions toward the Boyars, who, unlike the serfs, were not marked with stamps indicating they’d received their portions. Some Boyars, seen conversing with priests, were discreetly ladled extra porridge from the same cauldrons meant for the serfs.

Nikolai, one of the Boyars, was the final spark for the mounting tensions. A pompous man with thick, horn-rimmed spectacles and an inflated sense of entitlement as a physicist, his arrogance quickly ignited the simmering discontent. Earlier, I had overheard him boasting about his “essential” role, even as he asked for extra portions from the priests at the porridge cauldrons. When Mila, a desperate serf woman trembling with hunger, approached him, pleading for food for her children, the tension finally reached its breaking point.

“Why should I share with you?” Nikolai sneered, clutching his bowl protectively. “It’s my right, as it has always been. You’re a dumb serf who knows nothing. Can you calculate the explosive yield for critical mass? Were you on the team building a particle accelerator in Novgorod? If it weren’t for limited housing in Moscow, I’d be there right now, not stuck with the useless masses like you.”

Mila’s eyes, wild with desperation and rage, filled with tears as she fell to her knees. “My children… they’ll die without food. Please, have mercy.”

Presbyter Mikhail, the pious yet foolish priest overseeing the food, tried to intervene, his sanctimonious tone grating in my ears as he condemned her. “Greed, Mila, is a sin. You ask for what is not yours. Trust in God’s will.”

Watching from a distance, I couldn’t help but smile. The Boyars and priests, acting according to their selfish natures, had stoked the crowd’s fear and hunger to the breaking point. Now, they only needed a spark. A Russian soldier, guarding Presbyter Mikhail, provided just that by pointing his rifle at Mila. His finger tightened on the trigger, safety engaged, but I discreetly disabled it.

A rifle shot rang out—sharp and final. Mila fell, her body crumpling in the snow, blood spreading across the frozen ground. Her children’s screams sliced through the night; a sound so raw it silenced the entire camp. Panic spread as the refugees erupted in cries of horror and fury. Their hatred of the Boyars, who seemed to be hoarding their food, and the Russian authorities, who enabled them, shattered any remaining respect for authority or spiritual hope. The crowd, already unsettled by the dwindling porridge, now surged toward the soldiers—thousands of starving, desperate people against a few hundred Russian troops armed with only bolt-action rifles.

It didn’t take long for the refugees to break through the soldiers’ defenses around the food carriages meant to distribute rations. When they reached the covered carriages, I released my displacement ability, revealing the three-quarters full carriages with sacks of wheat. The sight confirmed what the refugees had suspected: they’d been deceived, and now they were incensed. The news was spread quickly across the various groups about the true status of their promised wheat.

This tactic was inspired by the coup that ended the Russian Empire in 1917. During the Russian-German War, food shortages and a refugee crisis had culminated in civilian protests. In February 1917, after the Russian guard army attacked civilians in Petrograd, a million citizens overwhelmed the Czar’s 322,000-strong army, forcing his abdication. Just like the February Revolution, these starving refugees needed only a small push to revolt.

As the rage spread, Russian soldiers scrambled to restore order, pouring out of the city’s fortified main throughway. Yet, they were unprepared for the sheer numbers pressing against them, and more exit points had to be opened, compromising the city’s graviton bubble.

From my hiding place, I watched as confusion swept through the camp. Russian soldiers and angry serfs clashed, while priests and Boyars tried to flee. The time had come for us to act.

I tapped twice on the amethyst gem in my hand, activating a single-use radio transmitter. My mecha knights and Robert approached in an APC under an invisibility screen, a material technology we had acquired from the Russians. Within minutes, they reached me, eyes glinting in the dark, reflecting the fires now spreading across the camps. Robert wrapped me in a quick embrace, healing my wounds and administering nutrients to improve my strength. Afterward, Gard and Marc carried a neutron bomb out of the APC, which they set to detonate in ten seconds, and I displaced an hour into the future. We relocated and hid the APC to the opposite side of Moscow, away from the clashing forces.

With the Russian soldiers distracted by the chaos, Moscow was vulnerable. This was a psychological assault as much as a physical one, similar to the Ottoman Empire’s devastating attack on Moscow in 1571. Just as then, creating havoc among the enemy before launching a direct assault would weaken their resolve.

We moved silently toward a side entrance near the main battle, where the refugees fought against the soldiers. My knights, trained for stealth, glided over the frozen ground with deadly precision. The entrance—a partially obscured stone gatehouse—lay under the graviton bubble’s edge, with a wide space uncovered to allow movement of several squads of soldiers.

As a group of soldiers exited, we struck, firing quickly and quietly. Robert and I were equipped with traditional automatic firearms and captured Russian armor, but the mecha knights were a far better foe for the Russians. Gard’s shots hit cleanly, and the first line of soldiers dropped without a sound from his compressed air bullets alone. The second wave activated their electric armor, but it was no match for the mecha knights’ speed and bladed weapons, which sliced through limbs and pierced any active armor. My knights, faster and stronger than any human, were machines of war. Bullets bounced off their bodies, and their carbon-steel tachis cut cleanly.

In the distance, I could hear the refugees’ cries mingling with soldiers’ shouts as they struggled to restore order. The riot’s flames cast a flickering light across the camps, an eerie reminder of the mirth and holiday songs that had filled the air only days before. That illusion was over. Moscow was burning, though not quite in the way I envisioned yet—the inner city remained safe within the graviton bubble’s shielded areas.

As we entered the gate, I felt the protective barrier hum beneath my feet while Robert and I moved to the front of our formation. The graviton bubble began to reactivate, creating a time-dilation effect near the entry point. My phantom energy ability, naturally opposing the massless particles of the graviton bubble, allowed us to counter its influence just enough to enter the city unimpeded, though I couldn’t manifest a large amount of phantom energy without a space-time rip. Given the displacement I generated around us, I estimated time was moving at about a 10:1 ratio inside the bubble. This meant one hour inside the bubble equaled ten hours in the normal universe.

Once we crossed through, hundreds of Russian soldiers blocked our path within the bubble’s space-time. Robert summoned a light pink plasma field before us, incinerating the Russian forces near the entrance. The contrast between the dark blue hue of the graviton particles and the soft pink of the plasma was striking, a sight that artists have tried to capture many times from our descriptions alone. With that, Moscow’s defenses fell with little more than a whimper—the beginning of their capital’s fall.

After we passed the threshold, Lok and Brin leaped forward, disabling the mechanisms that operated the steel gate we had entered through, sealing our rear from any attempted counterattacks. Ken and Curt flanked us on the left and right, while Gard and Marc secured our front. Meanwhile, the other mecha knights engaged a column of fully armed Russian soldiers dispatched to intercept us from several hundred yards out.

Although Moscow likely held more than a hundred thousand people and soldiers, the gates and nearby barracks created natural chokepoints, designed to control the movement of enemy soldiers. This design, rooted in Byzantine defensive architecture from the 16th century, allowed only about twenty soldiers to advance abreast on the main road leading to the city gates. It worked well against medieval armies, but in the age of gunpowder and modern weaponry, such narrow passages became a double-edged sword. My mecha knights, with their tireless stamina and concentrated firepower, turned the chokepoint into a deathtrap.

Thousands of Russian soldiers marched to their deaths, trying to halt our advance, while we obliterated their ranks. By the time we reached the Kremlin, soldiers had resorted to using depleted uranium bullets and other radiation weapons against us. However, Robert and I neutralized these weapons’ effects with ease. We anticipated a nuclear response, which came as we approached the Palace of Facets. I displaced the four simultaneous nuclear blasts across the city into the future, while Robert infused us with iodine as a precaution.

The nuclear blasts, though slower than plasma bolts at around 1,988 miles per hour (or 0.55 miles per second), had been strategically positioned a mile apart in four cardinal directions around us to maximize casualties. It was a clever attempt to trap us. However, they overlooked the reaction time required for my displacement ability, which operates faster than the blasts could travel. At the standard human sensory stimuli reaction time of 200-250 milliseconds, all four nuclear blasts were cleared.

We entered the Kremlin’s complex of palaces and cathedrals, finding them eerily empty. The mecha knights, using their subterranean sonic sensors, quickly identified an extensive bunker network below. They breached the doors of several bunkers, likely housing the Russian government and various members of the Russian faction from my timeline, as well as cores and other valuable materials. After hours of intense hand-to-hand combat, they brought us the nineteen-year-old Prince Feodor Ivanovich and a large blue cube identified as a charging station by Gard. With their nuclear assault foiled, Russian troops were too demoralized to mount further attacks or challenge the mecha knights.

In addition to the cores, we recovered Russian technical schematics and advanced technologies, including a stockpile of plutonium-239 warheads. The mecha knights removed these warheads from storage and, using my displacement ability, placed them strategically around Moscow, with the displacement serving as a timer during follow up searches.

It appeared that Czar Ivan was not in Moscow, having redirected his efforts to Kazan to support conflicts alongside his Ming allies. According to documents from their national archives, he had left his young son and a sizable army to defend their home territories. Intrigued by the young prince, I wanted to learn more before departing the city.

Darkness had settled over Moscow after our sabotage of their power grid, casting a faint glow from fires that flickered across the ruins of military buildings and homes. The Kremlin, once a symbol of the Russian Empire’s unassailable power, lay quiet. My boots echoed against the stone floors as I made my way to Prince Feodor Ivanovich, heir to the Russian throne, now bound in his bedroom within the palace.

When I entered the room, the prince stood tall despite his restraints, his face smeared with the residue of battle and tears. His defiant blue eyes locked onto mine as I approached.

He was the first to break the silence, his voice taut with contempt. “So, Elias Tudor, or should I say Mr. John Christopher Humes, it seems you are no mere researcher or pervert—you’ve allied yourself with the Guardians of Eternity, just as Catherine de Medici warned us. Breaking through our graviton bubble would require their intercession.”

I raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued. “The Guardians of Eternity? Fascinating. And what exactly did Catherine provide your Empire to substantiate this… fantasy?”

I knew from Prince Joachim Frederick of Prussia that the Guardians of Eternity played a significant role in my timeline’s future after my death, catalyzing the conditions that forced the transmigration of countless consciousnesses back to the 16th century. However, apart from Joachim’s second-hand account, I had no contact with this group. Nor did Jack’s records at Avalon show any ties to them. Even the Avalon facility's AI personas had urged me to avoid investigating the Guardians for my own safety based on what little knowledge was in Jack’s record about these near-godlike beings.

Prince Feodor’s gaze sharpened, a thin smirk curling his lips. “The proof lies in your bloodline. A DNA sample from none other than your deceased son, Prince Henry Tudor, as a newborn showed irrefutable genetic markers shared with the Guardians. We verified this from the physiology of a dead Guardian envoy we identified as ‘Zachariah-Alpha’ from our timeline. Your lineage is... intertwined with theirs.”

The revelation was startling, but I kept my face impassive. If he was telling the truth, Robert and I might indeed be caught in a kind of bootstrap paradox. I’d learned the concept from the anime Re: Zero. It is a paradox where actions in the future set off events that cause the creation of those future actors in the past. The Guardians of Eternity were tied to Earth’s cataclysm, necessitating the transference of consciousnesses into the past, only for Robert and me to emerge as the Guardians’ forerunners. Seeing the fear and hatred both Joachim and Feodor harbored for these beings, I wondered if my actions here had somehow inspired their destructive tendencies. It was a parental instinct from the worry that I was giving my children bad advice. Regardless of its validity, I couldn’t allow any doubts to alter my course.

I tilted my head, feigning indifference, and leaned back against the wall, my arms crossed. “Is that so?” I replied flatly. “And yet, here I am before you, unaided by the Guardians. Allow me to recount the events that led to your downfall—a tale grounded in reality rather than the assumptions you’ve constructed around circumstantial genetic evidence.”

Feodor’s smirk faded, his expression clouding with skepticism and apprehension.

“While your faction was busy dreaming of expanding Russia into the Near East and Central Asia, I orchestrated a refugee crisis in your European territories. It was simple but effective. Over a million starving refugees flooded your city’s outskirts, hoping for assistance to reclaim their lands and rebuild. Instead of addressing their needs, your representatives outraged them by withholding their porridge rations. The Boyars and Orthodox priests bore the brunt of their anger, but that was all I needed. A single shot from one of your soldiers sparked a rebellion against your corrupt system. In the end, many of your forces had to leave the city to quell this unrest, leaving an opening for my forces.”

I let the silence hang as Feodor processed the implications.

“While your forces were diverted to contain the unrest, my mecha knights breached your defenses, eliminated the remaining guardians within the city, and entered the Kremlin. Moscow’s downfall wasn’t due to powerful godlike beings but to the rot at the heart of your empire—a feudal system crumbling under its own corruption and arrogance, just as it did in our timeline.”

Feodor’s eyes flashed with anger, but his defiance was unbroken. “You may have breached the Kremlin, Elias Tudor, but my army remains. One hundred thousand men within the city alone, with another two hundred thousand outside to restore order. Your twelve mecha knights are no match for them.”

I offered him a thin, mocking smile. “Your scattered forces are no longer the threat you imagine. The refugees and soldiers beyond the graviton bubble protecting your city, locked in their struggle, won’t survive what’s coming.”

Feodor narrowed his eyes. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

With a faint smirk, I leaned forward, savoring the moment. “A neutron bomb. Placed in the heart of the conflict zone. Armed when I left and detonated before I entered the Kremlin’s boundaries. Nothing within several miles will survive, except those protected by the graviton bubble.”

Feodor’s face paled, his eyes widening with horror. “You’d… kill all those people? Your barbarism knows no bounds, Elias Tudor!” He hurled Russian curses at me, venomous and raw.

After a few minutes, he steadied himself, shaking his head, visibly rattled. “Even if you’ve dealt a heavy blow, there are still over a hundred thousand soldiers here. Even if you destroy Moscow and kill me and my men, our armies in the east will return, with support from our Ming allies. You’ll only ignite our resolve for vengeance!”

I allowed a sly grin. “Not if I leave your lands as a poisoned grave. I never intended to occupy or annex your territories, nor would the other members of the Northern Pact,” I said, standing up. “I’ll be leaving Moscow within the hour. I doubt we’ll meet again, Prince Feodor.”

Just as we had entered Moscow without warning, we left in the same manner. Robert and I donned radiation suits, knowing the neutron radiation outside would be dangerously high. The Russian army made several attempts to ambush us, but the mecha knights eliminated them as before. The timed nuclear detonations around the Kremlin would coincide with the displaced detonations, destroying everything within the bubble a day after our departure.

As we left Moscow, we passed through a horrific landscape of soldiers who had perished within seconds of the neutron blasts. This victory would be remembered as the end of Russia in European affairs within my lifetime. The Russian Empire would later understand that they hadn’t only lost a million people and their capital during my campaign between 1576 and 1577. When they finally returned with reinforcements from the Ming in 1578, they found a desolate wasteland. Crops wouldn’t grow, and the water table was tainted with dioxin. Basic filtration methods failed to detect the contamination, causing high attrition months into their so-called counteroffensive. The remnants of their forces eventually retreated back to Central Asia after making a pyrrhic attempt at shelling the free city of Narva from across the river.

By the time they reclaimed their former territory in principle, the population had dwindled from 2.4 million to just 11,204 by the end of 1578. Without their agricultural heartlands, Czar Ivan relied on meager supplies from Central Asia to feed his remaining population. Though the empire retained its resources for trade, it became a tributary of the Ming Dynasty in all but name, just as the Dukes of Moscovy became tributaries to the Mongol Empire. Dealing with the Ming alone rather than both the Russians and their Ming allies became an easier task from a diplomatic and territorial standpoint. In 1578, during the founding month of Britannia, the Ming sent envoys to England seeking a formal non-aggression treaty.

Would I have waged this devastating campaign against the Russian Empire knowing what I know now about the Guardians of Eternity? I’m unsure if there was ever a better path than this destruction, or if I erred in choosing vengeance over dialogue. Perhaps this flaw—prioritizing retribution over reason—is shared by the Guardians of Eternity and us, their progenitors.