Eagle, I don't want to form an alliance anymore.

"I Don't Want to Form an Alliance Anymore, Eagle!" - Author: Taboritzky

In 1980, in Moscow, he said, “I have two advantages as a leader: I am open-minded and I can persevere. If I could also be a leader for once, then that would be my ideal alliance.”

Chapter 1 You two are Shuke and Beta

Cold...shivering...

"You two are not allowed to shake your legs!"

The KGB officers in front of them, their faces grim, looked at these two extraordinary individuals as if they were class enemies.

"Okay, meow, no problem, meow." "Comrade, I wouldn't be shaking my leg if the chair wasn't cold."

The lights in the interrogation room emitted a faint hum. The man and woman in front of the KGB sat on two chairs with their hands flat on the floor.

The man was about 1.62 meters tall, probably a local. He was a bit overweight and wore black-rimmed glasses. Although he spoke very casually and maintained a calm expression, based on his 20 years of experience in internal security, he was just a show-off and easy to manipulate.

The woman was about 1.76 meters tall, didn't seem to be a local, and had white hair with bright pink contact lenses? Come to think of it, she looked quite robust. What did she do for a living? Sigh, these young people these days always copy Western stuff; I wonder what the future of the alliance is going to be...

"Sir—no, comrade, we really aren't spies! I swear to God!"

The special agent remained silent, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the short, restless man before him. This poorly acting man was trying his best to appear as an ordinary, unlucky fellow who had been mistakenly arrested, but in reality, he was definitely cunning!

One of the legs of his chair was slightly shorter than the other three, so that the chair would creak whenever he moved his body slightly.

"Comrade, we just don't have the money to buy tickets and want to go outside the stadium to watch the Olympics and enjoy the grand event that symbolizes the unity of the alliance."

Gao Jian Guo, who was standing next to the man, was not an easy target. He knew very well that this woman had not panicked at all since she entered the interrogation room. In this day and age, she was not even afraid of the KGB. She was no ordinary foreign spy and had to be sent to the Far East to dig potatoes!

He turned his head and gave a look to the person behind him, indicating that the pressure had been applied enough and it was time to begin.

Two colleagues emerged from the shadows. One was older, in his early fifties, wearing a gray suit and a neatly tied tie, and was flipping through a thin file folder. The other was younger, in his thirties, standing beside him with a cigarette between his fingers, not bothering to flick off the ash that was about to fall.

A portrait of the mentor hangs on the wall, his gaze passing over everyone's heads, looking towards a distant future. Some of the paint on the wall below the frame is peeling.

“I’ll say it again,” the older man spoke, his voice low, “what’s your name?”

“Velikoslav (Великослав)”.

"surname?"

Slava paused for a moment. The system sitting next to her had its arms crossed, its expression somewhere between helplessness and amusement. She was dressed in an outfit that didn't quite fit the era—a light gray trench coat over a black turtleneck—but that didn't matter. What mattered was that the system hadn't told her its last name.

Slava's nervousness made the system unable to hold back either. She glared at him and told him to hurry up and make one up.

What was he making up? He couldn't even remember his original surname. The part of his memory about who he was seemed to have been erased, leaving only scattered fragments that weren't part of his personal experience—for example, he knew that the League was currently hosting the Olympics, and that the United States was still boycotting it because of the war in Afghanistan. He also knew that the League would win many gold medals at this Olympics, being the host country.

But he suddenly realized that he couldn't remember what his parents looked like.

"A citizen?" the older interrogator asked again.

“...Ivanov,” Slava said.

This is probably the most common surname in the league, equivalent to Zhang Wei or John Smith in East-West Rome.

The young interrogator finally flicked his cigarette ash and chuckled, "Alright, then, citizen Velikoslav Ivanov, what's your workplace? Your address? Your identification documents?"

"I..."

“Lost,” the system answered for him from the side, its tone carrying an “I’m really something” implication.

"Comrade, we've encountered a thief, and everything has been stolen."

“Yes,” Slava nodded and said, “at the train station, yes, the train station.”

Which train station?

Kazan Railway Station.

Where do you come from?

Slava's mind raced. The train at the station was heading east, which meant...

Kuibyshev.

"Kuybyshev came to the capital, are you here to watch the Olympics?"

"Yes."

The older interrogator finally looked up at him, as if looking at an insect that had been caught in a jar.

“A factory worker from Kuibyshev, who came all the way to the capital to watch the Olympics,” he slowly savored the sentence, “without identification, without money, and with a—” He looked at the seat next to Slava, waiting for the young woman with silver hair to speak.

"Sister?" Slava's words filled the interrogation room with a joyful atmosphere.

“Okay, he also brought a woman who claimed to be his sister,” the interrogator continued. “This woman claimed that her last name was also Ivanova, but she couldn’t even say where she worked.”

The system rolled its eyes.

“She’s not quite right in the head,” Slava said, forcing a smile. “A little…” He pointed to his temple.

"Who are you calling brainless?" the system girl's voice came from the side. "Just you wait and see!"

Damn, those two are amazing.

The young interrogator took a deep breath, stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, walked up to Slava, and bent down to look at him.

“Let me tell you about our situation,” he said in a low voice, “During the Olympics, security in the capital is the top priority. All unauthorized personnel have been cleared out, leaving only vetted and reliable members of the public. Now, suddenly two people with no identification and questionable identities appear. What are we supposed to think?”

Slava didn't say anything.

Are you a spy?

"No."

Are you a sabotage element?

"No."

"Then what are you?"

I'm an unlucky guy who traveled from 2019. When I woke up, I found myself lying in a small alley in the League of Legends. Standing next to me was a silver-haired woman who called herself "Your Cheat". She said her appearance was based on my favorite character and that I could call her "Nian". Then she told me that my current mission was to change the course of history, but even she didn't know exactly how to do it.

Of course, he couldn't say that.

“Comrade, I’m just an ordinary person,” Slava said. “I lost my documents and was just about to get them replaced.”

“A replacement certificate is needed,” the young interrogator said. “Your workplace is in Kuibyshev. How do you get a replacement?”

"..."

The older interrogator waved his hand, signaling the younger one to step back. He closed the file folder, leaned back in his chair, and looked at Slava.

The silence lasted for about a minute, and there was nothing in the interrogation room except for the hum of the fluorescent lights.

“Alright, Comrade Ivanov,” the older interrogator finally spoke, his tone suddenly softening, “do you know where you are?”

Slava knew this was Lubyanka, the KGB headquarters. He had been brought here by patrolling police officers, changing vehicles twice along the way, before finally being taken into this building. He remembered watching some documentaries about this building before he crossed over—it was the tallest building in the entire alliance, because you could see Siberia from the basement.

This is a league joke, and he certainly doesn't intend to tell it in front of the KGB.

“I know,” he said.

"Good to know." The older interrogator stood up and patted the file. "We will continue to investigate your identity. You and your 'adopted sister' can leave until we have a clear understanding of the situation."

Slava was taken aback. Just let them go like that? They weren't locked up as spies? Well, no foreign spy would be as stupid as the two of them. In the eyes of the KGB, they should only be considered slightly suspicious.

“I knew it,” the system girl chuckled from the side, “They won’t wrong innocent people; we’re all perfectly law-abiding citizens!”

But both Slava and the system knew things weren't that simple. Seriously? Those were special agents! How could they be released so easily? They were probably only released temporarily to see who they met and where they went.

“Go on,” the interrogator said. “There are comrades at the door who will escort you out.”

Slava stood up, his legs feeling a little weak. He had been sitting in that chair for at least three hours; his buttocks were numb. As he reached the door, the older interrogator called him back.

"Comrade Ivanov."

Slava turned around.

“Your accent is wrong, and your personal belongings are wrong too,” the interrogator said. “That’s not how Mrs. Gubishey speaks. Be careful next time you make up a story.”

Slava gave an awkward laugh, offered a clumsy salute to the special agents, and quickly pulled the system out.

...

Outside the main gate of the Lubyanka Grand Hotel lies a spacious square.

The sunlight was blinding. Slava squinted as he stood on the steps, taking a while to adjust.

The capital of the Alliance was unbearably hot at the end of July. The jacket he was wearing was provided to him by the system when he transmigrated, clearly without taking the season into account. He took off the jacket and draped it over his arm; the shirt under his armpits was already soaked with sweat.

System—well, she didn't like being called System by him; she preferred another name, "Nian." The woman with long silver-white hair and rose-red eyes stretched, unbuttoned her trench coat, and pulled him into the shade under the tree.

"Alright, buddy, stop standing there like an idiot and drawing attention. Let's go." "OK"

The two walked down the steps. The square wasn't crowded; a few pedestrians hurried past, none giving them a second glance. In the distance, a black luxury Volga sedan was parked by the roadside; there seemed to be someone inside, but it was unclear.

“Director Nian,” Slava whispered, “is that car…?”

“The bag is being watched,” Director Nian said without even turning his head. “Do you think the special agents are pushovers? We let you out just to let you run wild?”

"So what should we do?"

"What can we do? Just do what you're supposed to do. What else can you do?" Director Nian's tone implied, "What kind of stupid questions are you asking?"

"We have no documents, no money, and nowhere to stay. We can't run away even if we want to. We just need to act like two normal unlucky guys. We're just putting on an act anyway. It's such a hassle."

Speaking of money, Slava remembered that when they left, the policeman who saw them off had given Director Nian some change, saying that they should go get a meal.

“But what about the money? Do we have to return it to that policeman?” Slava asked.

“Brother Lao, thirty rubles is enough for us to eat a few meals,” Nian said. “What do you mean, ‘return’? I see that the tutors hanging on the wall have no objections, so what objections do you have?”

"Okay, I still don't understand why they gave me money?"

"you guess?"

Slava thought for a moment and understood. The KGB wanted them to slip up, so they needed to be able to act. Two penniless men could only wander the streets, unable to access any intelligence networks. Giving them some money to eat would make them more likely to do "real work."

"Since things have come to this, let's eat first."

The two walked along the street. Slava was taking his first serious look at Moscow in this era:

The streets were wider than he had imagined, but there were few cars; occasionally, a few buses would rumble past, billowing black smoke. Many of the buildings along the road were in the style of the 50s—dusty, tall, and solemn, carrying a certain undeniable sense of oppression. The sidewalks were paved with square stone bricks, some of which were broken, exposing the soil beneath.

The pedestrians were dressed simply; most men wore dark suits or jackets, while women wore dresses or blouses with skirts, in a limited range of colors—gray, navy, and brown. Occasionally, a splash of red or yellow would flash through the crowd, drawing attention.

Many people were carrying bags filled with bread, sausages, or vegetables. Slava saw a middle-aged woman stuffing two cabbages into a mesh bag, which swayed back and forth as she walked, hitting her legs.

“The supply of goods in the capital was much better during the Olympics,” Director Nian suddenly said. “As far as I know, you usually have to queue for an hour to buy a sausage.”

"Aren't you the system? How do you know?"

“I’m the system, of course I know,” Director Nian glanced at him sideways. “Why don’t you try to recall it again? I’ve already installed the basic historical background for you, you just don’t want to look at it.”

"...Where did you put it?"

"Don't you realize why you can say 'Sukhabriel' so fluently?"

"Cyka Blyat! It really is! Director Nian, what else can you do?" Ever since Slava was sent to the Lubyanka Grand Hotel for a day trip by the KGB after arriving in this unfamiliar environment, his brain can finally function normally again, and his IQ has finally returned to its high level.

"You'll remember when you need it, don't worry."

The two continued walking. Passing a newsstand, Slava stopped to look at the newspapers on the shelf: the front page of *Pravda* was about the Olympics, with the headline saying the Union delegation had won several more gold medals. The *Izvestia* next door was similar, filled with sports news.

“Find the state-run canteen,” Director Nian reminded him, “Don’t just stand there like an idiot.”

"Which way?"

"Can't you ask for directions?"

"Aren't you the system?"

"I'm your father, Fei Wu Dong! Why do you make me do everything? You're so lazy!" Director Nian clenched his fist as if to punch Slava, and Slava immediately raised his hands in surrender.

He looked around and saw an old man sitting in a folding chair by the roadside, playing chess with him on a chessboard. He walked over and asked, "Hey, old comrade! Excuse me, where's the nearest state-run canteen?"

The old man looked up and sized him up.

"Go straight ahead and turn left at the second intersection," the old man pointed in the direction, "No. 5, the state-run canteen, it's easy to find."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, young comrade." The old man looked down at the chessboard again and muttered, "From out of town to watch the Olympics?"