Moscow in January remained locked in winter's grip. Outside, thick snow fell in silence, swept into swirls by the wind like the feathers of a great beast. The snowfall blanketed the world like a quilt of down.
With a jingle, someone pushed through the snow-buried street and into a bell-hung tavern. A wave of heat greeted him, heavy with the scent of strong liquor.
"Mmm. Not bad," the man murmured, brushing his snow-covered handlebar mustache. He took off his wet leather cap, shook his shoulders, and let the snow scatter into the warm room.
"Would you like a drink, sir?" a young bartender asked, threading between crowded round tables.
"I'm looking for someone," the man replied with a smile. "But sure—two bottles of vodka. Snow like this deserves strong drink, doesn't it?"
"Of course, sir. Please have a seat."
He nodded, eyes sweeping the not-so-small, not-so-large tavern packed with people. Snowy weather always drew Russians to taverns, but this year felt... different.
He made his way to a quiet corner.
"Haven't seen a scene like this since the Gray Terror," he remarked, setting his hat on the windowsill and looking across the table.
"Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov?"
The young man leaning against the wall opened his dark brown eyes.
"That's me," he replied.
The older man chuckled and sat.
"When you say 'haven't seen,' do you mean the rare snow—or the crowded tavern?"
"Maybe both," Vladimir replied. Just then, the bartender returned with vodka. Vladimir offered a quick thanks and downed a large gulp.
The other man raised an eyebrow at the display.
"You're ready, then?"
"Of course," Vladimir said. "We're ready to tear through the Gray Veil and embrace the sun of freedom."
"And for that, we have you to thank, sir. Without your support, the Bolsheviks wouldn't have their own factories or arms. I wouldn't even be back here—my name is still on wanted posters."
"I'd say it's the authorities who should be worried," the other man said playfully. "You're the 'Thousand-Faced Mentor' now, aren't you?"
"Who knows?" Vladimir chuckled again.
Then he fell silent.
He looked out the frosted window at snow-shrouded Moscow, lost in thought.
A year had passed since the Tsar's defeat. Nicholas II had signed a humiliating treaty with Germany. In that year, Lucan Luvist, now in power, had launched the infamous "Gray Veil" purge—an effort to stabilize the Empire.
The Bureau of Action and Inquiry was created. Countless progressive elements were arrested and exiled to Siberia.
Under this suppression, the nation appeared calm. But everyone knew how fragile that calm truly was.
Where there is oppression, there is resistance.
One such resistance was the Bolsheviks.
Founded in 1898, devoted to the liberation of the working class, their strength had surged thanks not only to repression—but to this mysterious supporter before Vladimir now.
He provided funds.
He provided resources.
And, most crucially, intelligence.
"Within a month," the man said, "the palace will face upheaval. The Mensheviks, representing the petty bourgeoisie, plan to launch an armed uprising in February."
"Be ready. Take advantage of the chaos. Though you're both workers' parties, I recall your ideologies differ."
Vladimir nodded gravely.
"Yes... We won't compromise with the other classes like they do."
The other man smiled faintly.
"I've delivered the message. This will be our last meeting."
"From here on, it's victory—or death."
"To tomorrow, then."
He raised his cup.
Vladimir hesitated, then raised his.
They drank. The man stood to leave.
"Sir," Vladimir called softly. "May I know your name?"
"You've always avoided telling me. But a man like you shouldn't vanish into history's shadows."
The man paused.
He looked back, smiled—but said nothing.
Then he walked away.
Vladimir tried to recall his features—but could not. No face. No voice. Only the words they'd shared, the ideas, the dreams...
They had not met often. But they had talked.
That man's ideas matched Vladimir's. His insight, sharp and kindred.
A kindred spirit.
A partner, at least in soul.
If only he'd known the man's name.
...
From "History of the New Nation: The Mentor"
"In his memoirs, the founder of the new government recalled that, in his youth, he was lonely. He held lofty ideals that few could understand. He dreamed of universal equality and unity. He could see a hundred years ahead. He saw the invisible threads of time."
"But he was not always alone. He once met a friend."
"He never learned that man's name. Only his beliefs. They were kindred spirits. Though they spent little time together, their conversations left deep impressions."
"That mysterious man never revealed himself. But his help was invaluable to the revolution. The founder referred to him only as 'the Mentor.'"
"He was the Mentor's Mentor. A forerunner lost to history."
...
Of course, what Lenin—the man once called Vladimir—never knew...
Was that as his mysterious friend stepped out into the snow...
His back was soaked with sweat.
"God, I hope he didn't figure it out. Every meeting's a gamble."
Lucan glanced back at the softly glowing tavern.
His black ceremonial cloak shimmered faintly, repelling the snow. But the cold still bit at him.
He had been helping the Bolsheviks from the shadows all year.
Why?
Because it served his plan.
To plant the seeds of mystery in the soil of a new age.
The Gray Veil was his doing too.
He was accelerating the Empire's collapse.
When the time came, all blame would fall on Nicholas II and Lucan Luvist.
That had always been the plan.
That was what they had spent the past year preparing.
"Time to go," Lucan murmured.
He looked up at the thickening snow.
It wouldn't slow him. His ceremonial attire repelled the cold.
But as he stepped forward...
He paused.
"Won't you come in for a bit?"
A sultry voice called out.
The snow stilled.
Like a frozen painting, Moscow's skyline blurred behind the falling flakes.
And from within the shadows...
A figure emerged.
Elegant.
Graceful.
Lucan narrowed his eyes.
"Sesshōin Kiara?"