Returning to the start of June 10th.

  Morning in Moscow was devoid of sirens. The Kremlin gates had opened early, yet there were no ceremonial ribbons, no honorary guards standing at attention. The sky remained overcast, and mist clung to the palace’s lead-grey domes. Small groups of people entered through security checkpoints carrying thin dossiers; no one spoke above a whisper. No journalists had been invited—only a single security camera mounted at a high angle monitored the ritual in raw, unedited footage.

  Yelena Fyodorovna Malinina entered the main hall in a dark suit, her shoulders plain, her lapels devoid of insignia. she did not arrive with an escort, accompanied only by a single assistant carrying a briefcase. Upon a prepared wooden lectern, the master of ceremonies read the oath of office at a brisk pace.

  Yelena nodded, repeating the oath with precision—no errors, no dramatic pauses for emphasis. She did not bow her head; she looked straight ahead at the front row occupied by representatives from strategic institutes, high-ranking security commanders, and the Joint Commission for Constitutional Review and Engagement (1).

  To the left, Vostrikov sat silently in the row reserved for honorary officials. Dressed in a black stand-up collar suit, hands folded over his lap, his eyes never strayed from his successor. When the room began to applaud as a matter of procedural reflex, he did not smile, nor did he stand. He only tilted his head slightly, like a man who had known this exact moment for a very long time.

  There were no speeches. Only an internal communiqué dispatched by the automated system fifteen minutes after the oath. The content consisted of four lines in a standard administrative format: "The new President has taken office. Level 1 executive authority transfer is complete. The Security Council is reactivated. Council Chairman: Andrei Nikolaevich Vostrikov."

  At that same moment, within the core layer of the Governance Operating System, or GovOS (2), a high-level encrypted signal sequence appeared on the central command line. Access rights under the identity of Yelena Fyodorovna Malinina were authenticated and integrated into the strategic coordination layer. The layered response network immediately recalibrated variables, synchronizing predictive algorithms with the new leadership profile.

  There were no emergency directives like in 2014, no immediate interventions like in 2008. The system quietly shifted into adaptive mode, monitoring domestic and international political environments, preparing for shifts that had yet to take shape based on the continuous data stream provided by the state apparatus.

  By early afternoon, macro-coordination dossiers were sent from the Government Office to the President’s office, accompanied by a handover document signed by Vostrikov’s own hand. The courier was an administrative clerk in a raincoat and wet shoes, wearing no departmental insignia. He left the folder on the desk and departed in silence.

  On the cover was a typewritten line: "Draft Proposal – Term Limits."

  Yelena reached the second line and stopped. Dim light from outside filtered through the thick glass, casting a pale blue streak across her forehead. The clock read 4:18 PM. She stood up, neither turning off her monitor nor calling anyone into the room.

  She read the contents of the draft with meticulous care, a trace of suspicion toward the former President lingering in her mind.

  "Reducing the number of terms to two? Increasing the duration of power to six years?"

  Yelena read on, her scowl softening into a look of disbelief at the typewritten lines within. She stepped toward the window, the orange hue of the setting sun illuminating the draft; her fingers traced line by line, ensuring not a single word was missed.

  But when she closed it, the only question left in her mind was: Why would he do this?

  A.N. Vostrikov had led Russia for five consecutive terms; he had reformed it from the ashes to be reborn as a phoenix rising over its lands once more.

  To Western leaders, he was a dictator. But to the Russians and many others, he was seen differently; despite being a man of many contradictions in international commitments, he had ensured the nation’s continuous, uninterrupted development throughout his twenty years in office.

  She sighed, troubled by yet another... bold proposal from Russia’s leader. It wasn't that she doubted his competence, but it would take time for people to realize this was a long-term plan executed over decades.

  She returned to her seat, staring at the draft, torn between sending it to NICRI (3) or asking Vostrikov for more details. Yet, she had no intention of disturbing him. After all, he had given his all to the Fatherland.

  It would be unseemly to dismiss this proposal outright.

  However, it was a proposal that demanded scrutiny.

  If it were his own doing, no one would object, even through the most rigorous oversight bodies. Even a cursory reading revealed Vostrikov’s final effort as the architect of this Russian Noah’s Ark. He was not a typical nationalist. To him, everyone was a brother nation.

  From the Tatars, Bashkirs, and Chechens to the Komis, Buryats, and even the unacknowledged mixed-race children of the Far East; everyone had a place in his vision. Not a place of charity, nor imperial tolerance, but an equal standing within the pragmatic yet tight-knit structure he called the "union of peoples." To Vostrikov, there were no minorities—only those who had not yet been given their proper role in Russia’s engine of survival.

  He often said: "We cannot choose our ancestors, but we can choose how we contribute." That quote was cited in the manpower classification documents he submitted to Parliament—a blueprint for post-Soviet social organization where individuals were grouped not by bloodline, but by their adaptability and the strategic value they provided.

  Thus, in the final years of his tenure, one saw faces that had previously existed only on the fringes of society: a Chukchi commanding an Arctic engineering regiment, a Dargin girl leading the strategic data agency, or a high-end weaponry production complex run by a Tatar and a Mordvin simultaneously, with equal power.

  No one called it "diversity," let alone labeled it "equality." In the Russia he left behind, those nouns were worn out. Instead, they used the word "structure": a social network redesigned according to the logic of survival, where identity was not erased, but no longer held the right to sit alone on a throne of nostalgia.

  The silence in the room seemed to suck out all sound; her heart began to beat faster as she thought of the era ahead, where she would shoulder Russia’s path. Some supported her; others viewed her with suspicion, believing she lacked the capacity to replace Vostrikov.

  She was well-acquainted with the barbs of her detractors:

  "You're quite confident, aren't you...?"

  "Young wood trying to replace the old..."

  "A mere girl dares to run for office..."

  She had become calloused to such words—to the point where, even if the entire government turned against her, it would not sway her decisions. What had been passed, she would not change, unless it proved unsuitable.

  But Vostrikov had come to her, affirming: "If you have the courage to stand up, do not sit down or step back. Keep moving forward, and then you will prove your worth..."

  Those simple words of encouragement were the vital push that brought her to this stage. And yet, there was nothing to prepare her for what was to come. That mysterious geological event would remain a daunting problem in the future...

  "...Back to work... Mustn't leave a bad impression on the first da—!"

  A sudden knock at the door cut her off. Yelena softly gave permission for the person to enter.

  She expected it to be her secretary with administrative reports, but it was not... NSC Chairman (4), Mr. Vostrikov, walked in holding a cake.

  He looked at Yelena, who was sitting bolt upright and appearing intensely serious as if to avoid a bad impression, though her awkwardness clearly failed to hide the truth.

  Vostrikov smiled faintly, half-joking, half-ironic as he approached the desk:

  "Don't be so rigid... I told you, be flexible where you can..."

  Yelena gave a strained smile and stood up to look at the cake. Her voice was low, tinged with suspicion:

  "What kind of cake is it?"

  "An old-fashioned honey cake... The kind Khrushchev once had the State chefs make in 1959 before labeling it 'too aristocratic.' But I like it... because it keeps well."

  Vostrikov set the box on the table and peeled off the plastic wrap. "Cake for those who have no time for lunch."

  Yelena gave a light laugh. "Thank you. I think I’ll be needing it today."

  "Not just today..." he replied, pulling out a chair to sit down, hands still folded in his lap. "You’ll need more than a cake to get through your first month."

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  A silence descended.

  Outside, the sun had begun to set, signaling the end of her first day. The lights in the room remained off, leaving only the grey light of late afternoon. Vostrikov leaned back slightly; he asked nothing, simply watching Yelena intently, as if evaluating not the President, but the person herself.

  Yelena did not shrink from his gaze. She placed the "Term Limits" draft on the desk, right in front of him.

  "I’ve read it. But I still don't fully understand the intent."

  "You don't need to understand it all. Just know it isn't meant for you."

  "What do you mean by that...?"

  "It is a contingency. In case you fail."

  She froze, her emotions cooling. She glanced at the cake and then the draft, sensing a deeper purpose behind them.

  "Why would you write a contingency like that instead of believing I will succeed?"

  "You understand politics now. Expectation is not an operational tool. It is a form of credit, and credit always has limits."

  Vostrikov crossed his arms and continued: "You don't have to follow that draft. But if by the third year you haven't established the foundation for strategic restructuring, it will become a mandatory proposal. You still have a choice."

  "Do I need to run it through NICRI?"

  "No. Because it isn't law. Not yet..." He paused for a few seconds before continuing. "Actually, I want you to consider it yourself. It is a test."

  "To see if I dare to amend it?"

  "No. To see if you dare to reject it."

  This time, Yelena lowered her head. Her thoughts grew hazy. Her hand rested on the draft as if to block a surge of ideas. Something had changed—subtle yet profound. A kind of hidden pressure that no school of politics or strategy taught; the pressure of facing the man who created the very system she inherited.

  She asked: "If I reject it, and I fail...?"

  "Then take responsibility like a Russian..." Vostrikov answered immediately. "No crying, no blaming, and don't go hiding abroad like the oligarchs of the 90s."

  Once again, the air in the room turned thick.

  But then, Vostrikov suddenly stood up. He brushed his hands and used a plastic knife to cut a slice of honey cake, placed it on a plate, and handed it to Yelena.

  "Eat. The sugar will help you think faster."

  Yelena accepted it and nodded. She said nothing. Vostrikov walked toward the door, but before stepping out, he stopped without turning around:

  "Ah, if you need to send anything to NICRI... don't hesitate. But if I were you, I’d stay silent for a few more weeks. Sometimes, silence is its own form of declaration."

  The door closed. In the room, only the sound of the second hand ticking remained.

  Yelena returned to her desk, cut a smaller piece of cake, and placed it on her tongue. It was sweet and rich, like a Moscow winter of years past. The cake reminded her of an old advisor’s words:

  "In Russia, if you don't learn to gnaw on cake in the middle of a campaign, you'll end up swallowing blood at the negotiating table."

  Vostrikov stepped out of the Kremlin at 7:12 PM.

  He looked back at the place where he had worked for the past 20 years, feeling a touch of nostalgia but no sadness. On the contrary, there was a sense of relief in the twilight of his life. All those constitutional amendments, the building of agencies, the proposal of the three-law theory, and so on...

  He remembered the period before deciding to stop seeking re-election; it was truly an era where no one dared to oppose him except himself. The agencies he had built were meant to counter the worst-case scenarios he could imagine.

  As early as the 2010s, he had advocated for a total overhaul of the political system to ensure that no single person could hold power for themselves, but he had to do more than that.

  Because of that, he now felt like an old man who had wasted his time in the most worthy of ways.

  Twenty years of reform to achieve the Russia of today. A sense of pleasantness washed over him as memories of all that time flowed back. Every human emotion had coursed through him during the various post-Soviet stages.

  He saw his old Lada parked behind the palace; someone was waiting. A short man with a square face, puffing on a cigar, looked at him with the disdain an old man might show a comrade who had abandoned the front.

  Foreign Minister Leonid Artemovich Melnikov—the man who had followed him since 2002. A gruff, difficult man in decision-making, yet the one who helped perfect this machine.

  "Took you long enough, comrade... How long did you plan on making me stand out here in the cold?"

  Melnikov growled, jerking his thumb toward the car, his other hand shoved in his coat pocket. His slender frame, angular features, and thick Chechen (5) beard made him look as fierce as their legendary warriors.

  But to Vostrikov, that look meant safety. No one could understand the difficulty of working in Russian politics for two decades without someone like Melnikov by their side: at once a ruthless critic and a razor held to your throat if you strayed from the ideal.

  Vostrikov gave a thin smile. "Cold? You once called me a coward for keeping the room temperature above 20 degrees."

  "Because a room can be warmed; out here, we’re at the mercy of the frost. You've retired, and yet I’m still standing here like a sentry." Melnikov blew another cloud of cigar smoke and tapped the hood of the car. "This junker still runs well, eh? Probably better than your back, given its age."

  "I'm older than this entire manufacturer... how could it compare to me?" Vostrikov teased, opening the car door. "Why don't you compare it to that son-in-law of yours... gave up his name just to enlist..."

  Melnikov climbed in and buckled his seatbelt, not forgetting to fire back: "Oh, is that so? And what about you? Now that you're going home, there’s no one waiting for you anyway."

  The Lada pulled out of the parking lot behind the Kremlin. No headlights were on, and a thin layer of frost on the windows obscured the view. Vostrikov sat in the back, hands resting on the head of his cane, eyes fixed on the dark void of Tverskaya Street as it quietly shifted into its nocturnal state.

  Melnikov said nothing for the first leg of the journey. But through the rearview mirror, his eyes occasionally flickered toward his former leader, as if verifying that the old general had truly stepped down. No tape recorders in pockets, no bodyguards trailing the car, no tracking signals transmitting to headquarters. This trip, to everyone else, was merely a "journey into retirement."

  "Do you plan to write your memoirs?" Melnikov asked, his voice steady.

  "No," Vostrikov replied curtly.

  "Someone will need them. Don't you want to think about the future?"

  "No... The successor should have the right to make their own mistakes."

  Melnikov nodded slowly. "And I need to know—what have you prepared if she fails?"

  "We all have contingencies. I left a layered data set at GISS (5). If necessary, she will automatically receive access when one of three conditions is met."

  "Three conditions?"

  Vostrikov offered a faint smile: "One, if GDP falls below 60% of the strategic extraction ceiling. Two, if regional conflict indices rise to the red threshold. Three, if an unidentified geopolitical anomaly appears."

  Melnikov smirked. "Quite specific. It’s as if you know what’s coming."

  "No. But I know that everything eventually comes."

  Melnikov laughed loudly, slapping his thigh. To him, that statement sounded like a joke.

  "Good heavens... you're still exactly the same. That 'knowing everything will come' bit... used to send half the Foreign Ministry into a panic. I remember when you made the whole department prepare a scenario for German nuclear rearmament, while Merkel was still busy negotiating an increase in the retirement age."

  "And then, the G7 meeting the following year included a line about 'transforming European defense capabilities' in the resolution," Vostrikov said softly, his eyes still fixed on the streetlights gliding past the glass. "I wasn't panicking. I was just accustomed to preparing for the worst."

  "The worst, eh?" Melnikov shrugged. "So, what is the 'worst' you see now?"

  Vostrikov was pensive for a moment. He rested his hand on his chin, thumb stroking his short beard. Then he replied in a low voice:

  "We are entering an era of the inability to determine cause. Disorders will no longer stem from humans, but from the very system that has lost control over itself."

  Melnikov clicked his tongue. "You sound like a fortune teller."

  "No. I sound like a systems engineer." Vostrikov straightened his lapel. "You once told me I wasn't a politician."

  "Because you never tried to convince anyone. You just placed everyone before a matrix of choices. Either follow you, or be removed from the supply chain."

  "And now, I have handed that matrix to Yelena."

  Melnikov’s voice suddenly grew solemn:

  "Do you know what worries me most?"

  "What?"

  "That the girl doesn't hate you."

  Vostrikov frowned slightly. "Why?"

  "Because anyone succeeding you should have a measure of resentment. it makes them independent. Without it, they will only strive to please you."

  Silence stretched. The car passed through a deserted stretch of road, lit only by yellow lamps and the cold mist clinging to the glass.

  "Perhaps... but she is not like that," Vostrikov replied after a while. "She refused to be an internal candidate. She built her own strategic analysis team, refused funding from GISS, and wouldn't use PTEC’s assessment systems. That is why I chose her. Not because she is like me. But because she doesn't need me to be a center of power."

  "And if she fails?" Melnikov asked again, his voice lower and more earnest this time.

  Vostrikov turned his head, his gaze so deep it seemed to pierce through the aging interior of the Lada.

  "Then Russia will have to start over. But at least this time, we have the system blueprints."

  Melnikov chuckled. "Classic engineer."

  "No. Engineers fix errors. I am only... trying to keep the ship from sinking before the next generation learns how to steer it."

  The car stopped before a small house in northwest Moscow. There were no guards or fences, only a wooden gate and a few pale yellow lights glowing from the ground-floor windows. This place had once been an old official dacha, later renovated as a retreat for senior advisors after leaving office.

  "You know this isn't the end, right?"

  "No, I am merely disappearing from the public eye for a while. They need to think I have left, to give Yelena space."

  Melnikov reached out for a final handshake. But Vostrikov did not take it. He patted his old friend lightly on the shoulder.

  "Come now, don't act like you're escorting a coffin (6)."

  Melnikov laughed softly, took another puff of his cigar, and nodded. "Sleep early. I have a mountain of intelligence to peel back at the Ministry."

  Just as he spoke, Vostrikov’s phone rang. He checked it and saw it was a number from the Council.

  Vostrikov’s phone vibrated at 10:40 PM.

  The screen displayed a simple line: "SIGNAL M1 – INTER-MINISTERIAL SECURITY ALERT."

  Source: GISS (General Directorate for Strategic and Interdisciplinary Response).

  Level: Red – Strategic Priority.

  The moment he glimpsed the first few lines, his brow furrowed, and he turned sharply to Melnikov.

  "Back in the car."

  "What? You've been 'retired' for less than five minutes!" Melnikov said, baffled.

  Vostrikov didn't answer. He handed the phone to Melnikov so he could see for himself.

  Melnikov lost his composure and swore outright:

  "God damn those Mainlanders..." He looked at Vostrikov, about to speak, when his eyes suddenly widened.

  "In this case, we have to call him back." Melnikov pulled out his phone, his fury beyond description. "Get in the car, we'll notify them on the way."

  The car immediately accelerated, racing back toward the Kremlin.

  Melnikov pressed the phone to his ear, muttering like a prayer: "Pick up, pick up, pick up..."

  The other end answered quickly. Before the person could ask anything, Melnikov demanded:

  "This is Leonid Artemovich. Is Kazimir Sergeyevich there?!"

  The person on the other end answered quickly, though their tone was anxious: "He is here. What’s happened?"

  Confirming the voice belonged to Kazimir’s assistant, Ikar Petrovich, he delivered the emergency message: "Terrorists have attacked our troops in the international restricted zone; there is confirmation they are using Chinese equipment."

  "What do we do?" Ikar asked, realizing the gravity of the situation.

  "You return to Moscow immediately. You must be before me within 12 hours. We will prepare for a trip to Beijing in two days. Understood?!"

  "Understood..."

  The call ended at exactly 11:00 PM.

  Melnikov looked at the screen and then turned to Vostrikov. For the first time all evening, his eyes betrayed genuine tension.

  "It seems... ambition is not something that can wait, eh? It’s only her first day."

  Vostrikov said nothing, silently watching the streets of Moscow. Just when he thought it was time to rest, they were entangled in a major international crisis. All he could murmur was a premonition:

  "Something is coming..."

  JCRE – Joint Commission for Constitutional Review and Engagement: Responsible for reviewing constitutionality, receiving civil feedback, and preventing extremist legislation.

  GovOS – Governance Operating System: The administrative and data platform for the entire government.

  NICRI – National Institute for Constitutional Research and Institutional Reform: Long-term research on system reform and the creation of contingency political models.

  NSC – National Security Council: Coordinates internal security, intervention, and the declaration of states of emergency.

  Chechen: An ethnic minority from the North Caucasus of the Russian Federation. Known for their distinct language, Sunni Islamic faith, tribal spirit, warrior culture, and history of resistance against Russia. Currently, they hold a unique status under the control of Ramzan Kadyrov, a Kremlin loyalist.

  Coffin (Linh c?u): A casket containing a body that has not yet been buried.