World of Iron and Blood

Gray days stretched on like an endless chain of identical moments, devoid of joy or inspiration. Work, home, rare meetings with friends - everything blurred into a monotonous backdrop. Alexander, a middle-aged man, had long since resigned himself to living out of habit rather than desire.

It hadn't always been this way. Work had once been fulfilling, each gathering with friends felt like a celebration, and the small things in life were a source of happiness. But as the years went by, the once-vivid colors faded. Even the comforts modern life offered at every turn no longer brought him any joy. Every day felt like a worn-out record - predictable to the point of irritation.

One of the few glimmers of light left in his soul was history. In his youth, Alexander devoured books about great conquerors, imagining himself as a knight on the battlefield, a shaper of destinies. He admired those who changed the world with their decisions. But as he grew older, even these dreams drowned in routine, becoming nothing more than a distant memory of who he once aspired to be.

One evening, tired and aimlessly scrolling through an online bookstore, he stopped. The title of one book made him frown:

"How to Survive and Change a Medieval World."

The title sounded strange, almost absurd, but something about it caught his attention. He read the description:

"A practical guide for those who want not just to survive, but to achieve power in the harsh world of the past. From farming to politics - all the secrets on one scroll."

- What nonsense, - Alexander muttered, smirking skeptically. - Who even writes books like this?

Yet his hand moved on its own, clicking the "Read" button. It was more than mere curiosity; it was an unconscious longing, a desire to break free from the prison of his dull life.

From the very first lines, the book captured him. The author described the medieval world with astonishing precision, making it come alive on the pages. Every detail, every instruction - from how to start a fire on a rainy night to surviving at the court of a treacherous feudal lord - was written with such clarity it seemed the author had lived through it all.

"Remember," the book warned, "in the Middle Ages, it's not about what you have but how you use it. Skills, knowledge, connections - these are your tools for survival."

Time flew by unnoticed. Alexander read on, transfixed, as if under a spell. He could smell raw iron, hear the clash of swords. For a moment, he even imagined the thunderous hooves of knights' horses echoing through his room.

When the free chapters ended, he froze, staring blankly at the screen. A message flashed before his eyes:

"The full version is available for purchase."

- What the hell! - he exclaimed, as if someone had torn him out of a captivating dream.

Without hesitation, Alexander ordered the book. It arrived a few days later, and he dived into it hungrily. Every chapter was a challenge:

"Could you survive in a world where life is worth nothing? How would you build your empire where there are no allies and no knowledge of the land?"

These pages didn't just entertain - they stirred something deep within him. Alexander imagined himself in the place of the book's heroes. How would he negotiate with princes? How would he bargain for peace or outwit an enemy with cunning? For the first time in years, he felt his mind working - intensely, passionately.

This book became more than just a read for him. It was a call, a manual, a guide to action. It was as if he had rediscovered himself, tasting the zest for life he had long lost.

When he finished the last page, the emptiness crept back in. Closing the book, Alexander set it on the table and stared pensively out the window. The city beyond the glass continued its life, but it no longer touched him.

- If only I could try it myself... - he muttered, absentmindedly drumming his fingers on the book's wooden cover.

That night, he dreamed of castles, battlefields, and towering gray stone walls. He saw people clad in chainmail and leather armor. Their faces were hidden by helms and woolen scarves, and their eyes gleamed with cold determination. Above them, banners fluttered, bathed in sunlight and blood.

- Alexander! - a voice called out. Deep and resonant, like the toll of a great bell, it shattered the silence of his dream.

The world around him began to spin. Light and shadow swirled in a vortex, and he felt himself being pulled into a dark abyss. His body was enveloped by an alien warmth, viscous and all-consuming, as if the earth itself sought to swallow him. A sword appeared in his hands - heavy, cold, as if forged from darkness itself.

When He Opened His Eyes, Everything Had Changed

He stood amidst bodies. The smell of burning wood and decay hung thick in the air, filling his lungs and searing his nostrils. Bitter smoke mingled with the metallic tang of blood. Around him stood a forest dimly lit by the flames of burning wagons. The clash of steel, piercing screams, the hiss of arrows ricocheting off shields - everything blended into chaos.

Alexander struggled to raise his hand. His palm gripped a sword, its hilt sticky with blood - his or someone else's, he couldn't tell. His gaze fell on the round helmet pressing down on his head, while the relentless pounding of the battle echoed in his temples. His whole body ached with exhaustion, yet his muscles continued to move as if they knew what to do on their own.

- An ambush... - he exhaled, feeling the remnants of sleep merging with harsh reality. No one heard his words, and he barely understood them himself. His eyes darted around, taking in the scene before him.

The enemy was everywhere. Three detachments attacked from different directions with unnerving coordination. The Poles, strong and unyielding, pushed forward in wedges, breaking through the defenses. The Hungarians, mounted on horseback, flanked them, their spears mercilessly piercing flesh. From the thickets, nomads unleashed a rain of arrows - their bowstrings whispered like the voice of death.

But this was the senior druzhina. These were warriors hardened by dozens of battles, men who always held their ground to the end. Their shields locked in a circle around the prince, repelling attacks.

- Stay close, Prince! We'll hold them off! - shouted Radomir. As always, he took the front line, shielding his comrades. Every move he made inspired confidence - he was a wall that knew no fatigue.

- To the left! They're coming through the trees! - called Vysheslav, his voice calm and steady despite the clamor of battle. His sword flashed through the air, cutting down enemies with precision honed by years of training.

- Damn it, hold the line! - Alexander roared, instinctively stepping closer to the center. His voice rang with authority, though chaos raged inside him. He felt his body moving on its own, finding the rhythm of the fight. Through the arrows and shadows, a rider's silhouette emerged. A Hungarian charged at him with a spear.

Alexander deflected the strike, stepping aside. His sword met flesh, and the enemy toppled from his horse. At that moment, a voice rang out beside him:

- Prince, move forward! We'll hold them back! - Radomir shouted, parrying a Pole's blow. Even under a hail of arrows, he didn't falter.

- Don't you dare fall! - Alexander bellowed, surging forward. He cut and struck his way through the enemies while Radomir held the line.

But everything changed when an arrow struck Radomir. He staggered, blood spilling over his breastplate, but he managed to shout:

- Prince, don't delay! - before collapsing, remaining a shield until his last breath.

To the left, Vysheslav glanced at the prince. His sword still struck down enemies, but the circle was closing around him.

- Go, while there's still time! We didn't swear our oaths for nothing! - he yelled, charging into the fray to cover the flank. His death was inevitable, but he stood unwavering.

An arrow zipped past, embedding itself in the ground near Anna. The only woman in the detachment, Anna was not just the prince's loyal comrade but also his lady-in-waiting. She had earned her place among the druzhina with her combat prowess.

Her movements were precise and practiced, equal to any warrior. She drew her bowstring and fired, the arrow piercing the eye of a rider who had raised his weapon against Alexander. Her voice cut through the noise of battle, strong and resolute, just as it had in moments when she supported him through his toughest decisions:

- Prince! They all believe in you! Break through!

Her presence inspired not just through her determination but her unwavering loyalty amidst the chaos of war.

They all believed. For them, Alexander raised his sword and charged forward, parrying blows and leaving enemies behind. He fought like a beast, oblivious to his wounds and exhaustion. But the enemies kept coming. Each strike grew harder, his muscles burned, and blood dripped down his face.

He was alone now. One last strike, one final effort - and his legs gave way. Shadows closed in, and the sounds of battle began to fade. In the distance, he saw the banners of Kyivan Rus fluttering in the wind, their colors mingling with smoke and blood.

The last thing he heard was the blast of a warhorn. Then darkness consumed everything.