The recording of the Olympian's voice, booming with divine arrogance, played on a continuous loop in the War Room beneath the Winter Palace. It was a declaration of dominance, a challenge from an ancient power to a new one.
Mikhail stood with his three Bogatyrs, the air in the shielded room humming with their combined consciousness. "A direct military strike would be their preferred response," General Denisov, the Bogatyr of War, stated flatly. His mind's eye was already running through tactical simulations—long-range missile strikes, naval bombardments. "It is the language of kings, a language they understand. A demonstration of our power would force them to the table."
"And what if their power is greater?" Alexei, the Bogatyr of Creation, countered. He projected a complex energy model above the table. "The energy required to manifest that localized storm is immense. It suggests a mastery of atmospheric thermodynamics that is, for now, beyond us. Their 'magic' is a form of physics we do not yet comprehend. Attacking them with kinetics when they command electromagnetism is like throwing rocks at a flamethrower."
"The psychic pressure was absolute," added Orlov, the Bogatyr of Protection. "It was not an attack, but a simple projection of being. They believe themselves to be the supreme authority. Any sign of weakness, any hint of fear, will be seen as an invitation to conquer."
The Sword demanded action. The Mind urged caution. The Shield warned of the enemy's nature.
Mikhail synthesized the data. A military attack was too crude, too predictable. A purely passive approach was too weak. His response had to be a reflection of his own power—not raw energy, but intricate, untouchable, and absolute control.
"They demand a tribute," Mikhail said, a slow, cold smile spreading across his face. "Then we shall give them one. Alexei, I want our finest unmanned vessel. It should be a work of art, carved from Ural cedar, with sails of silk. It will be laden with the treasures of our Empire—casks of the finest vodka, chests of Siberian gold, Fabergé eggs, masterwork paintings. It will be a gift worthy of a god."
Denisov looked confused. "Your Highness… we are surrendering to their demand?"
"We are delivering a Trojan Horse, General," Mikhail corrected him. "Alexei, woven into the very structure of this ship, I want a network of your finest creations. Microscopic, self-replicating surveillance nanites. A series of psychic resonance dampers. And at its heart, I want you to install a master analytical engine—a digital intelligence. Its sole purpose will be to activate upon my command, infiltrate their domain, and analyze the very nature of their power."
The plan was audacious. He would use the Olympians' own arrogance against them. He would give them a gift so magnificent they would be unable to resist bringing it into their inner sanctum.
Weeks later, the tribute ship, the Dary Nebes (Gift of the Heavens), sailed into the Aegean. It moved without a crew, guided by Alexei's systems, a ghost ship of breathtaking beauty. As it approached the shimmering veil around Mount Olympus, the waters parted, and a figure of blinding light—the god Hermes, as Orlov identified him from the psychic resonance—appeared to guide the vessel into a hidden, ethereal harbor on the mountainside.
From his War Room in St. Petersburg, Mikhail watched through the ship's hidden optical sensors. He saw a world of impossible marble architecture, of lush gardens and beings of immense power and beauty. He saw the Olympians, laughing and marveling at the tribute from the "upstart mortal king."
He let them bring the treasures into their grand hall. He let them celebrate their perceived victory. Then, as Zeus himself stood before the ornate Fabergé egg that housed the AI's core, Mikhail gave the order. "Activate."
In an instant, a silent, invisible war began. The nanites, dormant in the wood and gold, replicated and spread, becoming a microscopic sensor network. The psychic dampeners created a subtle field of interference, clouding the Olympians' divine senses. The AI at the heart of the egg awoke and began its work, not attacking, but listening, analyzing the torrent of energy and psychic broadcasts that constituted the reality of Olympus.
In the St. Petersburg War Room, Alexei's models exploded with new data. "Father… I see it," he whispered in awe. "Their power isn't infinite. It's tied to belief. To worship. To the Earth itself. They are more like massive psychic batteries than true creators."
Denisov's strategic map lit up with the precise energy signature of every god on the mountain. "I have their locations. Their power levels. Their patrol patterns."
Orlov nodded. "Their psychic arrogance is a broadcast antenna. I can read their surface thoughts. They are confused. Their senses feel… muffled."
Mikhail leaned into his own communications console. He broadcast a new message, not on the open radio, but directly into the mind of the being called Zeus, using a frequency Alexei had isolated from the AI's analysis. His voice was not a petition. It was a cold, quiet whisper inside the god-king's own thoughts.
"Your storm was impressive," Mikhail projected. "This is my reply. I now have ten thousand spies in your halls. I am listening to your thoughts and mapping your power. My understanding of your nature is now more complete than your own. I still extend the offer of a diplomatic parlay between equals. We can discuss the future of this world as sovereigns. Or we can proceed to the next phase of this demonstration. Your move, King of the Sky."
The chapter concluded with Orlov's report. "Psychic surge from Olympus, Your Highness. It is not arrogance this time." He paused. "It is pure, unadulterated fury. And for the first time… a trace of fear."
Mikhail had not fired a shot. He had not started a war. He had simply delivered a tribute. But in doing so, he had violated the sanctity of his enemy's fortress and proven the existence of a power they could not comprehend. The game of gods had truly begun, and the Lord of the North had just shown the King of the Mountain that his thunder was no match for a silent, calculated whisper.