Ladies and gentlemen. Today is a sad day for the United States of Gomora. The Leader of the free world, John Bydlon, has lost his battle with the pulmonary virus …
The twenty-seventh of October went down in history as the Fall of Gomora. In many countries — Zhongguo, Giao Chi, Mesopotamia, and nearly all Far Eastern and Musulman nations — the date became a national holiday.
In the Scythe Empire, people celebrated, too, though the holiday was never officially recognised despite frequent proposals in Parliament. The main opposition came from those who argued it was un-Christian to rejoice in any man's death, even an enemy's.
In any case, the United States of Gomora ceased to exist. The world had finally exacted three centuries of terror through unbounded retribution.
John Bydlon had already been a demented old man when he took office. Doctors prescribed sedatives to keep him docile and make him appear competent, but the drugs couldn't prevent the endless embarrassing moments during press conferences and meetings with foreign dignitaries. He spoke nonsense, confused the names of past and present leaders, and shook hands with invisible guests.
No matter how hard his staff tried to convince the world of his cognitive fitness, his dementia was plain for all to see.
Yet behind the pity people felt for the clumsy old fool lay a bloodthirsty grandfather. The so-called Leader of the Free World loved to boast about his role in the bombing of Yugoslavia and insisted on flooding Borderland with weapons, declaring that Gomora would support the war until the last Borderlander remained. Hundreds of billions of dollars poured into Borderland while Gomora and its own citizens crumbled.
Gomora's decline had begun with the withdrawal of its troops from Gandhara — just months before the start of the Special Military Operation. The move stunned the world; Gomora never abandoned the countries it had destroyed and exploited.
When the conflict in Borderland escalated, the reason became clear. The Gomorians had planned to redirect those troops for an invasion of the Scythe Empire once Borderland launched its attack. Thankfully, events didn't unfold as they intended.
Then Bydlon fell ill. Tests had repeatedly shown he carried the pulmonary virus. His condition worsened, but the Capitol refused to release any information — until the day he died on the twenty-seventh of October.
John Bydlon was the last leader of the United States of Gomora. After his death, no further elections were held.
He would be remembered as the man responsible for the Fall of Gomora, its financial collapse, and the most disastrous policy in its history.
Even the prefix United vanished, surviving only as a historical reference.
Gomora shattered into several smaller states, often divided along west, east, north, and south lines. Yet even within these fragments, harmony proved impossible.
Different cults fought for followers and donations, brainwashing people with pseudo-religious doctrines laced with satanic undertones. Taboos disappeared. Paedophilia and bestiality were openly tolerated.
The economy collapsed. Banks failed. People survived by selling stolen goods or, if they were fortunate enough to keep their land, by selling their harvests.
The only functioning export was the film industry — dominated by pornography. Drug trafficking flourished in the chaos. Pills and substances became more adulterated than ever, especially with cheap fentanyl, leading to soaring overdoses that turned users into walking corpses. Some survivors required limb amputations after severe complications.
Western ports closed to Gomorian ships after waves of illegals attempted to cross borders. Citizens from both West and East were banned from visiting Gomora for tourism or diplomacy due to the extreme risk of robbery, abduction, or murder.
Gomora became the global symbol of degeneracy.
Law enforcement gradually ceased to function. Museums, theatres, monuments, and universities were destroyed. Soldiers, police officers, and their families were persecuted and often killed. Criminal organisations with the most resources fielded private armies and offered bounties on judges.
Dangerous convicts escaped or were released during violent prison riots.
Eventually, Gomora became the post-apocalyptic wasteland it had once loved to portray in its films — only this time the ruins were its own.
The conservative southern states maintained a fragile order and were considered the safest zones, thanks to lenient gun laws and constant day-and-night patrols. But even that peace was threatened by the Rise of the Natives in the north.
The Mayans had seized North Gomora and were marching south. After three centuries of genocide, exploitation, and discrimination, the indigenous peoples were finally reclaiming their land and culture.
On the other side of the ocean, however, things were improving.
The Special Military Operation ended in total Scythian victory and the capitulation of Borderland, though a guerrilla revolt lingered in the Stanislau region. When Vladko Shut and his inner circle learned of Bydlon's death, many fled west. Some joined the guerrillas in Stanislau; others pushed further into the Sarmatians and crossed into Lechia.
Vladko and his commanders were declared war criminals, but the West refused to extradite them, granting political asylum instead.
Borderland officially became Scythian territory once more. The West attempted to challenge this with territorial claims, but without Gomorian backing their protests carried no weight. Gomora had abandoned its allies and had far too many problems of its own.
After two months of futile media battles and diplomatic isolation, the West was forced to recognise all territories reclaimed by the Scythes as belonging to the Scythe Empire.
The Yugoslavians regained their lost lands without bloodshed or the usual Western hysteria. Five Scythian battalions arrived at the request of the Yugoslavian leadership and positioned themselves along the annexed Musulman border. The Western Alliance didn't dare intervene. Western troops were expelled, and the Yugoslavian Army re-entered territory it had been barred from for twenty years. The Scythes remained until all small rebellions were crushed and every Gomorian official was removed.
The West's sudden change of heart was also helped by the coming winter. The preceding summer had been abnormally hot; the winter promised to be equally severe. When the Scythes reduced gas supplies in retaliation for sanctions, Western citizens quickly realised it wasn't their war. Waves of strikes and violent protests erupted, forcing governments to lift all sanctions against the Scythe Empire.
A remarkable transformation was also underway on the continent of Alkebulan. It began with the firm but polite expulsion of all Western diplomats, NGOs, charities, companies, and health organisations. Once they were gone, the Alkebulans turned on local pirates and religious extremists. Their methods were brutal — public hangings and beheadings — but they served as an unmistakable warning.
Rebuilding Alkebulan's states, economies, and global standing was slow and difficult, yet it had begun. The people traded fruit, coffee, and spices while learning to harness their own natural resources after a century of Western control.
The Musulmans were peacefully restoring their countries and trade routes. For the first time in decades, they no longer feared shelling or terrorists stealing their land, resources, and people.
Decades of war had left the Musulman world with a severe shortage of men. Sociologists reported over three million dead in a single decade, the majority of them male. Many more had fled to the West and never returned. The resulting imbalance demanded drastic solutions.
Musulman societies began recruiting women into the army, police, border control, and security forces. Some countries integrated them fully into the judiciary and military; others did so partially. The results were immediate and striking.
The female Musulman units gained a fearsome reputation. They were highly effective, reckless, fearless — and filled with rage. Decades of rape, abduction, and loss had forged them into instruments of divine retribution. Their cold silence and often veiled faces terrified their enemies. Terrorists rarely survived long enough to reach trial.
With these women patrolling the streets, the Musulman region became the safest in the Middle East.
The Far East was thriving as well. Zhongguo was particularly satisfied: its greatest rival could no longer obstruct its trade. Goryeo had reunified, ending foreign interference. Smaller nations like Giao Chi developed their tourism industries as the West became increasingly unattractive to visitors. Bharat emerged as the new glamorous centre of the film industry, though living conditions for its citizens remained challenging.
New South Wales became the only place in the world willing to accept Gomorian refugees. When Gomora fell, many tried to flee west, but ports and borders were closed. They were unwelcome in Alkebulan or the Far East. Only New South Wales offered refuge — on strict terms. Immigrants were sent inland to deserts and bushland, where they lived in temporary camps. Those unwilling to work hard returned to Gomora; those who stayed cultivated the land.
Nippon, however, grew quiet and isolated. Tourism continued, but entry and exit were severely restricted. Strict border controls led to incidents where Nipponese guards shot their own citizens attempting to flee. Provocations against Scythian islands near Nippon occurred, but without Gomorian support, they amounted to little more than a sulking teenager demanding attention.
And then there was the Scythe Empire itself.
A phoenix risen from the ashes, with God and Vladimir at her side. Purified of Western organisations, their paid agents, their immorality, their Gomorian dreams, their lying free speech, and their perverted culture.
Her soul was pure and transparent, like her waters and her sky.
The Scythian people seemed transformed — lighter, freer, as though they had rediscovered something long lost. Breathing came easier. The sense of freedom was almost intoxicating.
Borderland was free.
The Coal Mining Region was free.
The Scythe Empire was finally free.
Yet that freedom still required protection. History couldn't be allowed to repeat itself.
Emin would ensure it didn't.
The time of the New World Order had arrived, and they were living in it. Scythia was the New World Order.
Gomorian conspiracists had speculated about it for years. They had been so convinced of their own superiority that it never occurred to them the New World Order might mean the end of the Golden Billion — and the end of Gomora itself.
But the battle wasn't over yet.
The Scythe Empire remained in danger. The traitors, foreign mercenaries, and escaped Nazis were still out there. They had to be eliminated.
Emin had his orders — and permission to use any means necessary. He couldn't do it alone; there were simply too many hiding in the darkest corners of the West.
He needed help. And for this grim mission, he needed a very particular kind of man.
Someone like himself.
A man brave enough, loyal enough, and willing to give his life for Scythia.
That morning, Emin was on his way to meet such a man.
The journey was difficult. Extreme winter had blanketed the world. In Scythia, snowfall had broken records. Roads were buried, and in places the snow reached above his knees. Emin struggled forward in his heavy winter gear, wondering if he had lost his way. Slobodan's house was nowhere in sight.
Then he saw it: a wooden house behind a fence, its roof thick with snow. Two black wolfdogs lay on the porch, pretending to sleep but quietly guarding their territory. When Emin opened the gate and approached, they opened their eyes but didn't bark.
He liked animals, especially wolves. He had always felt a kinship with them. The dogs sensed no threat — and perhaps recognised a fellow predator.
Emin knocked. From inside came the sound of a woman's laughter and Slobodan's voice, thick with his Yugoslavian accent, saying something amusing.
The door opened, releasing the warm scent of burning wood from the hearth.
"Good morning, Slobodan," Emin said warmly.
He knew everyone called him Danny, but he disliked the Anglo-Saxon name.
At first the sniper didn't recognise the tall, broad-shouldered man in blue polar clothing. Then the eyes jogged his memory.
"I'm Emin. Though you may remember me as Mohammed Jihad."
Recognition flickered across Danny's face, followed by a faint, almost imperceptible tension. Still, he smiled kindly and stepped aside.
"You must be cold and hungry. Come in, warm yourself by the hearth. How did you find me?"
"Finding people is my job," Emin replied laconically.
The kitchen was warm and bright. Emin sat on the cushioned bench beside a sleeping grey cat, stroked its head, and earned a contented purr.
Danny asked his wife to make tea.
"Who is it?" she asked, entering with open curiosity.
"Elena, this is Emin. A friend from the Coal Mining Region," Danny explained.
Emin stood and told her he was enchanted to meet her. She pretended to accept the lie but greeted him coolly. Emin saw the distrust in her eyes. She knew he was no casual friend and guessed why he had come.
Elena wouldn't let her husband leave with him. But the decision was Danny's.
Emin ignored her angry glances and focused on his host. They spoke at length about life on the farm, shared battles, and the enemies they had killed.
Emin liked Slobodan. The Yugoslavian was amiable, attentive, and possessed a sharp sense of humour. Under different circumstances, he would have welcomed such a man as a friend.
But this was neither the time nor the place for idle conversation, and Danny sensed it, too.
When his wife left the room, the sniper confronted him.
"So, Emin, why do I have the honour of this visit? You didn't come all this way just to reminisce about old battles."
"No," Emin said, glancing over his shoulder to ensure they were alone. "How are things in Yugoslavia? Have they cleared you?"
"Yes. All charges were dropped. I'm a free man again. Last month I visited my son — we hadn't seen each other for two years. Why do you ask?"
"Your freedom of movement could be useful. I've come to ask you to join me on a mission in the West."
"What mission?"
"Eliminating the rats who escaped and are hiding in the so-called free world."
Danny fell silent, weighing the request.
"The line between sniper and killer is very thin," he said at last. "I killed Nazis in Borderland to protect women and children —"
"These men are also Nazis and traitors," Emin interrupted.
"Perhaps. But the circumstances are different. This isn't a battlefield. They aren't armed or threatening civilians. You're asking me to kill unarmed men — possibly women. They deserve punishment, but I won't cross that line. Thin as it is, it's what separates me from murderers."
"I understand," Emin replied quietly. "But history has an annoying habit of repeating itself. If we don't deal with them now, our children will face the same threat in ten or twenty years. Do you want your son to inherit this fight?"
"No," Danny answered simply.
Emin rose. "Thank your wife for me."
Danny followed him to the door. "Speaking of children… what about you? Don't you want a family someday?"
Emin paused, surprised by the question. He had never truly considered it.
"I will. One day. But first I need to make sure they can live in a safe world."
"You can count on me," Danny said as he and his dogs watched Emin cross the snow-covered courtyard.
"I know," Emin replied, raising a hand in farewell. "I'll be in touch."
As he walked away, Emin understood — and even agreed with — Slobodan's words about the thin line. He had lost count of how many times he had crossed it himself.
That was the difference between them.
That was why Slobodan had a home, a loving wife, and a son.
And that was why Emin hadn't insisted.