Velask: The First Spark of World War 3

Velask: The First Spark of World War 3”

Cold wind clawed at the edge of the Karakorum ridge, carrying ice and sand in equal measure. Dawn light crept weakly across the skyline, illuminating the jagged peaks in dull gold. Border guards in both Naryanov and Velask—once peaceful neighbors—watched through binoculars, breaths invisible in the razor-sharp air. Tension rippled in frozen lines, each soldier a living fuse.

In the city of Kharkovka, beneath smoke-scarred buildings and shuttered shops, rumors carried faster than gunfire. “They say tanks have rolled past Zareno.” “Our airspace has been breached fifteen times in the last two nights.” Mothers clutched children in doorways, priests prayed at broken altars, and journalists stared wide-eyed into satellite maps. No place seemed safe, not even the windows could keep out the invisible dread.

It began, to some, as nothing but local probes: small skirmishes along the Naryanov-Velask border, artillery shells fired from unmarked positions, cyber-attacks on communications, drones skimming across villages. Diplomats whispered about provocations. The world watched but remained divided on which side to condemn. Both nations blamed the other.

But then came the spark: the village of Rostavka, nestled in the high steppe, moments before sunrise. A convoy of Velaskian light tanks crept over the broken pass flanked by Naryanov hills. The soldiers wore no insignia. They paused at sunrise, engines idling, and opened fire on a border post—bullets ripping through wooden huts, mortar rounds hissing overhead. The Naryanov guards retaliated.

Chaos erupted. The rumble of howitzers, blasts echoing off the snow-scarred ridges, smoke plumes rising like black flowers in the rising light. Civilians fled; the blood of young soldiers stained the frost.

By midday, both capitals were ablaze with accusations. Velask claimed self-defense, alleging that Naryanov had massed artillery and made incursions across the High Ridge. Naryanov answered with claims that Velask’s troops had crossed belligerently under the cover of darkness. Neither side produced proof, only grief.

International calls for de-escalation went unheeded. Naryanov used diplomatic channels to demand Velask withdraw, but Velask responded with counter-demands. Foreign correspondents reported mobilization: divisions called from reserve, fighter jets scrambled over mountain passes, ships moved into contested seas. Stock markets collapsed; oil prices spiked. The United Nations Security Council met in frantic sessions, words of condemnation exchanged—but no action.

Then came the worst: the strike on Noven Port. Velaskian missiles—precise, unmanned—cut through the pre-dawn fog, slamming into shipping docks and fuel depots. Explosions lit the sky; flames devoured everything. The Naryanov government, citing self-defense, activated air-raid sirens. Civilians dived into bunkers, windows shattered. All at once, the conflict spilled beyond mountain passes and desert borderlands.

Diplomatic back channels crumbled. Allies of each side declared support. Militaries stood ready. The standoff that had simmered for months ignited into all-out war. Velask troops launched offensives across multiple fronts. Naryanov retaliated with chemical missile strikes and cyber assaults. Cities far from the border lit up in fire. The world held its breath: this was no longer a regional war, but one with the potential to consume continents.

Amid the chaos, in a small radio studio in Kharkovka, a single voice cracked over the airwaves:

“To those listening — this war was started not by one nation alone, but by the choices of those who believed silence was safety, by those who saw borders as backdrops for ambition. Today, the first bombs fell. May we yet choose humanity.”