Ch 4 : The Realm of Simargl (Part-2)

Scene 5 : Calmness of the Wraith

The battlefield had become a boiling cauldron of chaos and heat. Steam hissed, water sizzled, fire clashed against water again and again—but Varun’s strength was fading.

His water serpents, once fierce and fluid, were being incinerated one by one, their serpentine forms bursting into steam before even making contact with the Volkazhar.

The monstrous beast, though charred and cracked from earlier assaults, refused to fall.
Its entire body glowed, as if its own bones were burning from within.

Varun (gritting his teeth):
“Tch… Damn mutt won’t die… And now it’s burning its own life force?”

The air warped around the Volkazhar. The already scorching battlefield spiked in temperature as the beast ignited its final reserves.

With every heartbeat, its flames grew brighter, wilder, more feral.

A red sun with fangs.

Varun (eyes widening):
“That’s not normal flame... That’s death incarnate.”

Ruslan, unable to resist the overwhelming heat and pressure, collapsed beside the still-unconscious Yudhir. His chest barely rose and fell.

Varun:
“Shit—Ruslan?! Not now!”

The beast roared, its cry a sound of vengeance beyond reason.

“RRRRRAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

The very earth trembled. Craters opened beneath its steps. It was beyond wounded—but possessed. Its hatred held it together. Its death would be explosive.

Varun’s arms trembled. His lungs burned. His mana—near empty.

Varun (desperate):
“I… have to protect them.”

With trembling fingers, he dismissed his serpents and redirected his fading strength.
A whirlpool of water erupted around Ruslan and Yudhir—a barrier, swirling and roaring like a living shield. The flames licked at its surface but couldn’t pierce it.

Then, with what mana he had left, he summoned dozens of razor-thin water blades, each forged with precision and pure will. They howled toward the Volkazhar like a storm of scythes.

They struck. They tore. But—

Volkazhar... endured.

Bleeding, scorched, barely clinging to existence—
It still stood.

And then, with a breath that sounded like the final heartbeat of a dying god, it opened its mouth and launched a torrent of pure fire—
A dragon’s breath of annihilation.

Varun dropped to one knee.

His mana was gone.

Varun (helpless, teeth clenched):
“No… I can’t… move…”

The flames raced forward—unstoppable, blinding—consuming everything in their path.

Varun could only watch.

Then—

CRRRRRRRRRRRSSHHH!!

A wall of glacial brilliance rose between them—
An immense sheet of ice, thick as stone and clear as crystal, halting the inferno in its tracks.

Steam exploded outward, covering the battlefield in a blinding fog.
The ground beneath the Volkazhar froze instantly, transforming into a mirror-like lake of ice. The beast stumbled, its paws skidding.

And then—a shadow.

A single figure, standing above them all.
High on a rocky ridge, backlit by the pale light of frost magic.

His cloak fluttered.

His presence silenced the storm.

Avi.

White hair tousled by wind. Eyes glowing like twin glaciers. His body wrapped in a veil of mist and ice crystals.

He wasn’t smiling.

He wasn’t angry.

He was simply—there. As if the world had decided to stop the flames itself.

Varun (barely breathing, watching):
“You… You’re here…”

His vision was swimming—but even now, he remembered.

The fight.

The clash.

That boy… never once lost control.
There was no fury in his face. No madness. But each strike was a tempest. Every movement carried the weight of buried wrath.

And now—he returned.

Varun (heart pounding):
“So you finally showed your face, Avi …”

The flames tried to roar again—
But even fire, hesitated in his presence.

Avi stepped forward slowly, one foot pressing down on the frozen ground—ice blooming under his step.

He looked down at the snarling Volkazhar, head tilted slightly.

Avi (quietly, to himself):
“I’ve had enough of things trying to burn what I care about…”

And then—his aura flared.

Not in a blast. Not in a surge.

But in a slow, unstoppable spread—like snowfall swallowing a battlefield.

The steam had thinned. The battlefield lay in eerie silence—cracks of melted earth beside frozen scars, chaos caught between two elements. And in that stillness… stood him.

Avi stepped forward, a quiet figure wrapped in power.

His presence was neither blinding nor boastful. But it drew the eye, pulled at the air like a coming storm.

The tunic he wore, dark as obsidian yet threaded with golden embroidery, clung to his form like armor born of patience and frost. The patterns shimmered subtly—sigils of ancient runes that whispered with restrained magic.

From his left shoulder draped a sash, weightless yet radiant, catching the pale gleam of ice like moonlight on snowfall. It shimmered like a frozen aurora, a mirror to the volatile storm he carried within.

His modern combat pants, reinforced with fluid armor lines, were built for war—yet they moved like fabric woven from cloud and steel. Around his waist, layers of protective folds hinted at a past stitched with battles.
His boots, scuffed and scored by a hundred terrains, struck the frozen ground with certainty—each step an oath.

Metallic bracers lined his arms, pulsing softly with icy mana. The light in them flickered like distant stars—waiting.

And as the wind shifted, markings—cryptic, ancient, beautiful—bloomed along his skin. They glowed beneath the surface like embers beneath snow, humming with dormant wrath.

A still storm… waiting to awaken.

Varun, lying partially against a broken shard of stone, could hardly believe what he was seeing. For a long moment, he said nothing. His gaze stayed locked on Avi, wide and stunned—not from fear, but something deeper.

Recognition.

Varun (weakly, to himself):
“So it’s true…”

The pieces clicked into place. The silent strength. The unnatural calm. The way the battlefield itself bowed to his presence—not from fear, but inevitability.

Varun:
“You… You’re the one we were meant to find…”

He remembered the words from long ago. A boy untouched by flame, who walks where frost obeys.
A leader cloaked in silence, whose wrath freezes stars.

Prophesied by their dragon king fathers.

Varun (smiling faintly):
“You’re the one… Yudhir and I were searching for…”

His body, drained of every drop of mana, no longer answered to will. But his heart—
his heart finally found peace.

With a slow exhale, Varun slumped back. The tension melted from his limbs. His lips curled into the faintest smile, a warrior’s final relief—not from defeat, but from passing the torch.

Varun:
“He’ll handle it…”

And with that, the tide of consciousness swept him away—
leaving only one figure standing between flame and final ruin.

Avi took one last step forward.

The battlefield… held its breath.

The land cracked beneath his landing—
a burst of white mist spread outward, chilling the air like winter claiming fire.

Avi stood still for a heartbeat. His icy aura pulsed, not in rage, but resolve. Each breath he exhaled turned to vapor in the heat-soaked battlefield, his presence the only cold in this infernal realm. Behind him lay his fallen comrades. Ahead, the rampaging inferno.

And so, he walked forward.

His boots crunched over the brittle, frozen terrain—each step calm, slow, certain.
Not a warrior charging into battle—
but an executioner delivering final judgment.

Volkazhar let out a wild, bone-shaking howl—
rage and desperation fused into one monstrous roar. With molten breath spewing from its nostrils, it charged like a rabid beast, flames igniting beneath its paws, cracking the frost-laden field.

But Avi… didn’t flinch.

With a flick of his hand, frost bloomed like lightning.

The Volkazhar’s front legs froze mid-lunge, encased in jagged ice. Momentum broken—its rear legs buckled high into the air.

Before it could crash back down—
a colossal ice fist erupted from the ground, conjured beneath the creature’s spine.

CRACK.

The fist slammed with unrelenting force into the beast’s back—
the sound echoed across the battlefield like thunder through a canyon. Volkazhar collapsed with a guttural snarl, pinned by its own weight and the frost rooting it down.

Still, it writhed.

Still, it screamed.

Still, it burned.

Avi (softly, his voice like falling snow):
“Stop struggling. You’ve already lost.”

With each word, he drew closer. His aura deepened—frost swirling like spirits around him, his glowing white eyes fixated like a beast tamer approaching a maddened animal.

Volkazhar shrieked and unleashed a flurry of fireballs—
dozens, hundreds, as if trying to erase Avi from existence in sheer panic.

But Avi raised his hand.

Spikes of glacial ice spiraled into existence mid-air, precise and jagged. They pierced each fireball mid-flight, shattering them into steam before they could reach him.
His walk never broke.
His eyes never blinked.

In this battlefield of blazing chaos, Avi didn’t seem like he belonged.
But that was the terrifying truth—he didn’t.
He was a storm from another world. An emperor of frost, walking untouched through hell.

Volkazhar, now cornered and trembling, unleashed its final gamble—
a scorching breath of flame, fueled by every last shred of mana and life it had left.

The sky ignited. A stream of white-hot fire roared forth like a dragon's death cry.

But Avi was already gone.

With barely a grunt, he launched himself high into the air—
an arc of pale blue light cutting through the inferno like a comet.

And for one moment, the battlefield held its breath.

He descended from the heavens—
a frozen meteor, encased in icy mana.
With a roar-less fury, his fist struck down, imbued with every ounce of his cold wrath.

BOOM.

The impact shattered the sound barrier.

The Volkazhar didn’t scream this time.
It simply… crumbled.

Its body disintegrated—flames extinguishing, mana unraveling—until nothing but frozen ash and shattered earth remained.
The crater that spread beneath Avi’s feet was littered with frosted spires, like nature itself had crowned him the victor.

Avi rose from the center of the impact zone. He stood amidst the ice, the cold wind fluttering his sash, his breathing calm—
a sigh escaping his lips, misting faintly in the heat-ravaged air.

He didn’t gloat. He didn’t smile.
He simply turned—because the battle was never about glory.
It was about protection.

He paused for a moment. His eyes narrowed.

Far, far in the distance—
someone was watching.

A presence. Silent. Hidden. Powerful.

But Avi said nothing.

He looked back toward the fallen—Varun, Ruslan, Yudhir. And he began to walk—ice fading beneath his steps, as if the storm was finally at rest.

Avi’s boots crunched across the rime-coated ground as he carried Yudhir over one shoulder and Varun cradled in his arms, while Ruslan stumbled alongside, still trembling. He placed them gently on a ledge high against the cavern wall—a sheltered nook bathed in pale, reflected frost.

Then he turned to the frozen cocoon of Ostap, kneeling to brush a layer of snow-like frost from its surface. With a whispered word, the ice cracked and fell away. Ostap slumped forward, unconscious but free of corruption. Avi guided him beside the others and stepped back, watching as his friends stirred.

Yudhir was the first to blink awake. He bolted upright, rubbing his head where flame had sent him crashing.

Yudhir (groggy):
“Huh… where’s that wolf bastard? Did we actually… win?”

Avi gave a calm nod, voice even as mist.

Avi:
“You’re safe. It’s gone. You can rest easy.”

Yudhir flexed a shoulder, wincing.

Yudhir:
“Good. My ribs still feel like I got run over by a battering ram. I need to lie down.”

He collapsed back onto the frosty ground with a soft grunt.

Ruslan sat bolt upright next, eyes wide—tears of relief and terror mingling on his cheeks.

Ruslan (voice cracking):
“Did it kill us? Are we—inside its stomach? No, no, no! I… I don’t want to die before saving Pskov! Big bro—where are you?”

Yudhir chuckled, brushing the snow from his tunic.

Yudhir:
“Whoa, easy there, kiddo. Take a breath. Look around—no giant flaming wolf here.”

Avi stepped forward and placed a steadying hand on Ruslan’s shoulder, frost melting at the contact.

Avi (softly):
“Deep breaths, Ruslan. I’m right here. As long as I stand between you and danger, no one will harm you.”

Ruslan flung his arms around Avi’s leg, burying his face in the frosty fabric. Avi smiled—a rare, warm curve—gently caressing Ruslan’s hair. Yudhir watched, pride flickering in his eyes.

With a groan, Varun rolled over, pushing himself up on trembling arms. A bruised smile flickered across his face.

Varun:
“Looks like we won, huh? Oof… my ribs still ache from our own attacks.”

Yudhir reached out and gave him a playful tap on the side of the head.

Yudhir:
“Quit whining, you big goof. Got myself lost for a month because you let Gabriel nab you. Avi was merciful—could’ve chipped more bones if he wanted.”

Varun (laughing through the pain):
“Sorry, sorry. Mercy, yes please—especially before I pull a stunt like this again.”

Avi shook his head, kindness in his gaze.

Avi:
“Don’t beat yourself up, Varun. It’s done. Ruslan, do you have any healing items in your pouch?”

Ruslan scrambled to his belt pouch and pulled out glowing healing beads, their runes flickering with life.

Ruslan:
“I’ve got some. One for each of you. But—where’s Ostap?”

They all turned as Avi gently shook Ostap’s shoulders. The tree-man’s eyes fluttered open, confusion and relief mingling in his gaze.

Avi exhaled softly, frost dissipating in his breath.

Avi:
“He’s safe. Let’s heal up, then talk.”

One by one, healing light pulsed from the beads—mending bruises, soothing burns, knitting flesh. In the hush that followed, the four of them—calm, courageous, bound by battle—prepared for the road ahead, hearts warmed by shared survival and an unspoken promise: together, they would face whatever came next.

Scene 6 : Splash of Adventure

As the warmth of the healing beads worked its way through their bruised bodies, the group sat quietly, catching their breath. Ruslan, however, remained fidgety—his gaze occasionally drifting to the still-frozen Ostap, a storm of unease brewing behind his eyes.

Avi noticed the tension immediately. With a warm smile, he reached over and gently ruffled Ruslan’s hair.

Avi: “Don’t worry, kiddo. Everything’s going to be alright. We’re all here for you. You’re not alone.”

Yudhir: “Yeah... we’ll fix him. We’re not leaving anyone behind.”

But the truth was far heavier than they let on. None of them had the heart to tell Ruslan that something—someone—was controlling Ostap like a puppet, and that the real target might be Ruslan himself. The only reason they were still alive was because Avi had shielded him every step of the way.

Yudhir and Varun exchanged silent nods. The thought of a shadowy enemy working for Emperor Drakuvor was unsettling. This wasn't over—not by a long shot.

Avi stood, brushing dust off his icy bracers as he surveyed the massive subterranean cave around them. The only way forward was clear: a narrow path hugging the banks of a steaming river, which glowed ominously with the red shimmer of magma flowing beneath the water.

A serene blue light flickered at the far end, like a beacon through the veil of heat.

Avi: “Alright. Time to move. I’m done babysitting wolves for today. Let’s head toward that blue light.”

Ruslan: (nervously clutching his pouch) “That path… doesn’t look safe. I’ve got a really bad feeling.”

Yudhir: “We’ve got no other choice. May the wind guide us… preferably not into boiling water.”

Varun: (peering over the bank) “Well… the stream seems like the easiest route. But how exactly do we cross it? Swim?”

All three turned toward him in perfect synch, slowly placing a hand on each of his shoulders with grins that screamed “we have a plan, and you won’t like it.”

Varun blinked. “Why do I feel like I just signed up for something dumb?”

Yudhir stifled a laugh, his shoulders trembling with the effort.

They approached the river’s edge. Steam hissed into the air as boiling water flowed beneath a deceptively clear surface. The glowing lava bed gave the river a deadly beauty—any misstep would be fatal.

Avi surveyed the surroundings and came up with a plan.

Avi: “I’ll craft a boat from ice. It should hold with a bit of mana reinforcement. Varun… you’ll steer.”

Varun: “Wait, wait, why is it always me?! Just because my magic is water-based doesn’t mean I know everything about boats!”

Avi: (innocently) “So… you don’t know how to build one?”

Varun: (sighing) “I mean… kind of. I may remember some stuff about boats. But I’ll need help. Hey, Ruslan—you’re up.”

Ruslan, having just secured Ostap with reinforced chains and several restraining spells, looked up.

Ruslan: “Lucky you! I used to hang out with boat-fixing uncles near the harbor. I know my planks and sails!”

Varun: (grinning) “Then let’s get to it. And Yudhir, quit laughing and lift something for once!”

The group sprang into action. Ruslan and Varun drafted the design. Avi used his ice to mold the hull and frame. Yudhir helped set the makeshift sails using sturdy cloth salvaged from ruins nearby. Within an hour, they stood admiring their work: a sleek, curved ice boat—majestic yet practical.

Avi: “I added some custom enhancements. Let’s just say… if we run into anything nasty, this boat’s got a bite.”

Ruslan: “Whoa, it looks sick! Like, if a glacier and a dragon had a baby!”

Varun: (puffing his chest) “Alright boys—ALL ABOARD! Your captain has arrived!”

Yudhir: (mock salute) “Wind’s steady and in our favor. Stay sharp, everyone.”

One by one, they boarded the boat. Avi carefully lifted the heavily-bound Ostap and settled him in. Yudhir took his post atop the mast, scanning the path ahead. Ruslan checked the boat’s balance and reinforced Ostap’s restraints. Varun, meanwhile, stood at the helm—radiating pure overconfidence.

Varun: “My noble crewmates! Are you ready for—ADVENTUUUUUUREEEEE?!”

All: (deadpan but together) “AYE AYE, CAPTAIN.”

Varun: “Chart the course! Set the sails! We're heading straight for the Sacred Regalia!”

The boat pushed off, gliding swiftly over the steaming surface. Avi maintained the hull’s integrity with bursts of icy reinforcement. Yudhir adjusted the sails for maximum wind efficiency. Ruslan kept a wary eye on Ostap while admiring the haunting beauty of this infernal river.

Strange creatures watched from the banks—shadowy imps dancing with sparks, bizarre lava-lizards sipping from the water’s edge, and jagged elemental beasts just barely out of reach.

Nothing swam in the river—everything feared the magma flowing below. But their boat moved with grace, cutting through the mist like an arrow.

And thus, four warriors (and one frozen problem) sailed deeper into the unknown, their bond stronger than ever, their spirits lifted by the thrill of journey and the warmth of newfound hope.

A grand adventure awaited.

The ship sailed like a silver blade over molten flame, majestic and bright, a beacon that drew the attention of prowling beasts. On the fiery banks, winged predators lunged from above, only to be swiftly struck down by Yudhir’s piercing wind-forged bolts. Varun, firm at the helm, wore the aura of a seasoned captain, eyes sharp, lips in a confident curl. Avi sat at the center of the deck, legs crossed, meditating, eyes closed but senses wide open, anchoring the entire boat with his icy energy. Ruslan stood near the edge, staring out with misty eyes, caught in a memory of simpler days sailing the gentle rivers of Pskov with his brothers.

Everything was going smooth—until something rammed the boat from below. A thunderous thud, like the slap of a titan's hand, rocked the vessel. The exit was near, a radiant glow just ahead, but now a new danger surged beneath them.

Yudhir stayed high on the mast, scanning the surroundings. Avi, unfazed, maintained his trance. Varun leapt to action, hands flaring with water sigils as he forced the waves to push them faster. The boat surged forward.

Ruslan was the first to see it—a disturbance moving in the lava beneath the riverbed.

Ruslan: (alarmed) "Guys… that thing below us… it's a Lavor Pike! A serpent born in magma streams, with heat-flickering fins and glowing molten scales! And… they never travel alone!"

Avi: "Then we’re going to have a whole pack of them on us. Everyone, hold your ground. I can’t move or the boat will collapse."

Yudhir: (grinning) "A pack, huh? Sounds like target practice."

Varun: (mock serious) "Hey! I’m the captain here! Ruslan, keep tracking their trail. Avi, what fancy tricks did you sneak into this boat again?"

Amidst the pressure, they still found time to laugh. Avi opened his eyes briefly, a sly smirk crossing his lips.

Avi: "I may have added a few modern enhancements. Left side: cannons. Rear: a machine-gun-like blaster. Top mast: long-range sniper. All powered by magic."

Yudhir: "You made a battleship out of ice? I’m impressed."

The moment to test those weapons came fast. The Lavor Pike pack burst through the lava surface, their serpentine bodies arcing like flame-tipped whips.

Ruslan: "Incoming!"

Yudhir’s sniper bolts, now infused with slicing wind energy, picked off the high-flying pikes. Varun channeled his hydrokinetic power into the machine blaster, sending bursts of water-infused projectiles into the fray. Ruslan, nervous but determined, manned the rear gun with Avi’s guidance echoing in his memory. One by one, the pikes fell.

But several made it through, gnashing at the hull with magma-dripping fangs. Avi, eyes glowing now, shifted his control to freeze and refreeze the damage, encasing the attackers in crystal-clear ice.

Avi: "Keep firing! I’ll handle the leaks!"

A boom shook the boat. The largest Lavor Pike had struck from beneath.

CRACK!

Yudhir crashed down from the mast, landing in a roll. Ruslan nearly flew off the deck, clutching onto Ostap. Varun fell to his knees, the rudder shaking in his grasp. Avi lost control momentarily. A hole tore open in the bottom.

And then—light.

The river carried them through a jagged opening, and the boat tumbled into a vast underground chamber. The ceiling arched high above like the dome of a lost cathedral. All around them, red lava carved a furious border around the centerpiece: a ghostly blue lake.

The lake glowed not with heat but with an ethereal stillness, casting the cavern in a shimmering sapphire hue. It was calm, surreal. In the very center, on a tiny island of obsidian stone, scorched with timeworn glyphs no one remembered how to read, lay the chained creature: Simargl.

A divine beast, draconic and lupine, its feathers shimmered in hues of cobalt and emerald. Its massive wings, vast as temple banners, were tucked close like the last breath before a storm. Chains of ancient rune-metal bound it at neck, limbs, and tail, pulsing with a forgotten language of restraint. Each chain pulsed not just with power, but with sorrow — as if the beast had once accepted this fate to protect something long lost.

Everyone was stunned.

Varun: (awed) "That… that’s him... Simargl."

Yudhir: (still catching breath) "That’s no ordinary beast. That’s a freaking divine storm with fur."

Ruslan: (whispers) "Why is he chained?"

Avi: (firmly) "That’s what we’re here to find out."

Then came the second surprise.

The river ended in a steep drop. A hidden waterfall. No one had time to react. The boat, broken but still afloat, plunged.

Yudhir: "BRACE!"

Avi flung his arms wide mid-air, freezing part of the waterfall to cushion the fall. Varun threw up a spiraling water vortex to slow the descent. Yudhir kicked against the mast, breaking the angle. Ruslan held Ostap tightly, shielding him.

CRAAASSHHH!!

The boat hit the lake, splashing radiant blue waves. Cracks spread, but Avi sealed them. They floated. Just barely.

A beat of silence.

Varun: (coughs, grinning) "Well... we made an entrance."

Simargl stirred.

Chains rattled.

The guardian was waking up.

Scene 7 : Simargl, The Sacred Guardian of Pskov

The ship floated gently in the glowing lake, its crystalline blue surface mirroring the stars that weren’t there. Around them, the fiery lava rimmed the cavern, pulsing like a living wound. The stark contrast between molten red and tranquil blue felt like a battle of gods frozen mid-conflict.

On a tiny island of black obsidian, scorched and etched with timeworn glyphs lost to memory, lay the chained creature—Simargl. Revered once by ancient tribes of Pskov, this divine guardian now lingered between myth and memory, bound in silence.

Ruslan leaned forward, breath caught in his throat. Stories from his childhood—tales spun by elders near the hearth—flickered through his mind. But none did justice to the reality before him. Simargl’s feathered body shimmered with shifting hues of cobalt, silver, and twilight green. Its mane sparked like distant galaxies.

The chains binding its limbs and wings weren’t iron—they glowed with an eerie pulse, woven with ancient runes and divine command. They throbbed like a second heart.

In the center of the island stood a tall obsidian pillar, tightly coiled by Simargl’s massive tail. Atop it rested a radiant orb, the source of the cavern’s ghostly blue glow. The light danced across the surface of the lake, casting long, trembling shadows.

Avi: "I think… that’s the Regalia. On top of the central pillar."

Yudhir (narrowing his eyes): "What else could it be? Should we grab it quickly and run?"

Ruslan (quietly): "No… I don’t think that’s a good idea. If Simargl wakes up… we might not live to regret it."

Varun (grinning): "Relax. It’s chained, right? I’ll go grab it. That’s what you all are here for—backup."

Suddenly, a tremor pulsed beneath them. The lake surface stilled. Simargl’s ear twitched.

The divine beast stirred.

Its luminous eyes opened—glowing amber suns in a face sculpted like divine judgment. Chains clinked, shifting like old bones, as Simargl raised its head and locked eyes with the intruders.

Then it spoke.

Not with a mouth, but directly into their minds. Its voice was ancient thunder beneath still waters.

Simargl: "I heard your every word since you entered this prison. I had no interest in you. Until one of you dared to speak of stealing the Regalia beneath my tail."

They all froze.

Avi sensed something strange in the beast's tone. There was no wrath. No hatred. Just… weight. Burden. A kind of reluctant guardianship.

Avi (bowing slightly): "Forgive my friend. He has more courage than caution. We didn’t come to rob you—we came seeking help."

Yudhir lowered his bow. Varun’s grin faltered. Ruslan looked mesmerized—eyes wide, heart thundering.

Simargl: "As you can see, I am bound. I cannot help you. And if you believe you can take the Regalia by force… you will be buried here."

Avi: "We came not to steal, but to save. Novgorod's armies march on Pskov. People are in danger. We believe the Regalia can help us protect them."

Simargl’s gaze shifted. It stared at Ruslan and the unconscious Ostap.

There was a pause—a silence that weighed more than words.

Ruslan (stepping forward): "Please… Lord Simargl. Help us. Weren’t you our protector once? Let us free you."

Yudhir (startled): "Have you lost your mind? He’s chained. For a reason!"

Varun: "We don’t know what he really is. We could be unleashing something worse."

But Avi said nothing. He watched. Waited. The beast gave off no aura of evil—only restraint. Sorrow. Duty.

Simargl: "Your heart speaks loudly, young one. But the chains are not only punishment—they are precaution. For your world… and mine."

Ruslan: "Then tell us. Why remain here? Why choose this pain?"

Avi (softly): "You don’t seem evil. You feel… like a sentinel. A guardian paying penance."

Simargl slowly turned its massive head toward a buried stone slab.

Simargl: "If you wish to understand… then look."

They docked the boat. The sand of the island was cold and coarse. Black glass and ash crunched beneath their boots.

The obsidian tablet jutted out from the earth like a fang. Etched upon it were five ancient scenes—worn, but still legible.

Ruslan knelt, brushing off the dust. He recognized the old glyphs. Avi stood beside him, reading the story through the images:

—A celestial war between divine beasts.
—Simargl weeping in the ruins of a fallen city.
—A betrayal—fire and blood.
—A pact made in sorrow.
—Chains binding wings under starlight.

Yudhir (softly): "So… it wasn’t conquered. It chose this."

Varun: "To protect us… from itself."

They turned to Simargl again.

Yudhir: "Forgive our disrespect."

Varun (earnestly): "We didn’t know. We only saw a chance to save lives."

Simargl's glowing eyes dimmed slightly.

Simargl: *"You are forgiven. But the Regalia cannot leave with those who have not proven their will. To take it… you must be worthy. You must earn it."

A hush fell across the cavern.

Then, the orb pulsed—once, like a heartbeat. The lake shimmered in response.

Simargl: "Seek the Flame of Cest. Only then will the Regalia awaken. And I… shall rise again."

The beast closed its eyes.

But its presence lingered—watchful, waiting.

A pact was made, sealed not with chains… but purpose.

A sudden pulse of raw mana burst out from Simargl's chest—silent yet thunderous—radiating across the cavern like a divine ripple. The impact struck every soul on the island.

Ruslan gasped and fell first, eyes rolling back as his body collapsed gently like a falling leaf. One by one, Varun, Yudhir, and finally Avi succumbed, each crumpling under the overwhelming force of spiritual weight. Their breathing slowed, their bodies still—but not lifeless. They had been drawn into a plane far beyond mortal understanding.

But one figure did not fall.

Ostap’s eyes snapped open.

Except it wasn’t Ostap.

A malicious glint shone in those eyes—an intelligence far more ancient, and far more cunning, lurked behind that boyish stare. He stood still for a heartbeat, almost mockingly… and then a storm of dark mana coiled around him like shadowy serpents ready to strike.

Simargl’s eyes blazed open.

Not surprised. Not afraid.

Prepared.

The ancient beast roared—not with sound, but with presence—and surged with radiant energy. With a motion of his great, feathered tail, he pulled all the boys, still unconscious, closer to him—shielding them within a barrier of runic light. The tension between the two powers, Simargl and the entity within Ostap, was suffocating, like the moment before a volcano erupts.

But Ruslan… was elsewhere.

Inside the Memory Trial

He gasped for air.

The world around him was… wrong.

Fires danced wildly across the blackened earth, painting the horizon in crimson hues. Crumbling stone walls stretched like bones of a dying city. The air smelled of ash and something older, like forgotten rage and divine judgment.

Ruslan stumbled to his feet.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but his gaze was already fixed on the sky. The clouds churned above like boiling ink, and behind that swirling veil, the heavens were at war.

Seven great silhouettes.
Vast. Mythic. Glowing with divine essence.
Each shaped like a celestial beast—wings, claws, horns, scales—locked in furious battle beyond human perception.

Thunder cracked louder than mountains collapsing. Each collision of fang and claw sent shockwaves rolling across the land, toppling towers, igniting forests. This was not merely a battle. This was history bleeding into the world.

Ruslan stood paralyzed… but only for a moment.

A strange clarity struck him. The way the sky shimmered. The familiarity of the burning castle ruins. The ethereal feeling in his veins.

“This is… Simargl’s memory,” he whispered.

It hit him then. The Battle of the Divine Beasts. He had read about it in crumbling texts, listened to half-believed tales whispered by scholars in Pskov. But seeing it—living it—was something else entirely.

And then he saw it.

Among the ruins stood a doorway—arched, majestic, impossibly untouched by the devastation around it. Flames coiled across its surface, yet emitted no heat. The fire pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.

Ruslan’s instincts screamed. This was it.

The Flame of Cest.

He stepped forward, not with fear, but with awe. The fire welcomed him—it did not burn, as if recognizing something in his soul. As if knowing he was the one meant to carry it.

His hand touched the flaming archway—and the door opened.

On the other side was a ruined city, solemn and silent, glowing faintly with residual mana. There, lying in the center of a broken temple square, was Simargl, wounded and unconscious, his feathers dulled, his divine body cracked and scorched.

Ruslan stared at the fallen beast.

And then he looked skyward one last time.

The silhouettes were still locked in battle, tearing the heavens apart.

He clenched his fists.

He would not look away.

This wasn’t just a memory. This was a revelation. A glimpse of the burden that Simargl bore. A god forced to fight, fall, and still rise to protect.

And Ruslan knew…
If he was to carry the Regalia…
If he was to awaken Simargl’s full strength…
He had to endure this trial not with fear, but with will.

He stepped into the ruined city, determined, the flame inside his soul finally beginning to rise.

The once-mighty guardian—whose wings spanned the heavens in the old epics and whose roar was said to silence storms—now lay broken amidst a city of ash and ruin. Simargl’s divine body was battered, his fur matted with soot and blood, his celestial feathers burnt and falling like grey snowflakes to the scorched stone beneath.

But what truly shook Ruslan… were the tears.

Simargl wept.

Thick, divine tears flowed silently down the sacred beast’s muzzle, glowing faintly like falling stardust as they struck the stone. He wasn’t howling or roaring in agony—he was simply mourning. Mourning like someone who had lost everything they swore to protect. Mourning like a guardian who had failed.

Ruslan’s breath caught in his throat.

He stepped closer, each footfall soft and hesitant, as if approaching a sleeping god. There was no fear—only a weight in his chest, like he was carrying the sorrow of a thousand broken prayers. Slowly, trembling, Ruslan raised his hand toward the fallen beast—not to touch, but simply to be seen. To reach out.

Suddenly, a voice—low and broken—whispered into his mind.

Simargl (weeping):
“I thought… if I fought in this war… I could protect my people. I believed I was doing what was right. But I lost everything. I lost myself. When I awoke… there was nothing left. Just smoke… and bones. Tell me, little one…
What could I have done differently?”

The words crashed into Ruslan’s heart like a landslide. He had never heard something so powerful sound so lost. He clenched his fists, unsure what to say. What could he say?

He was just a boy who couldn’t even save his own father, his own brothers. What wisdom could he offer a divine guardian?

But he looked at Simargl. Really looked.

And the boy inside him—the one who used to dream of heroes, who used to hold his father's hand while walking through markets, who buried his tears under quiet smiles—that boy stepped forward.

Ruslan (gently):
“…I don’t know what to say. I’m not a hero. I can’t even fix my own family. But…”
“If you tell me more about the battle… maybe I can understand. Maybe we can figure it out together.”

Simargl went silent. Then, slowly, with heavy sorrow vibrating through every word, he spoke.

Simargl:
“We were the Seven Sacred Guardians… summoned by our creator, the Sage Yājñavalkya. But when we arrived, he was gone. Only his disciple stood before us. He claimed that only one guardian could be chosen to inherit our Creator’s Divine Water Pot. He said we had to fight… or watch our cities burn.”

“Before we could even respond… a crimson fog consumed my mind. I lost all reason. When my senses briefly returned… I saw blood. My brothers and sisters—beasts of legend—torn and roaring, eyes glazed in madness. Some had fallen… others were still locked in carnage.”

“I tried to speak. I tried to stop it. But I couldn’t. The madness pulled me under again. When I awoke, I was alone… and my city… my people…”

“All gone.”

Ruslan stumbled back a step.

The pain. The betrayal. The manipulation. All buried under the mask of divine rage.

The guardian beast hadn’t failed.

He had been used.

And despite that… despite the blood on his claws… Simargl still wept. Still regretted.

That’s when Ruslan understood.

This wasn’t a trial of strength. It wasn’t about who could take the flame or wield the Regalia.

It was about understanding pain.

And having the courage to carry it.

He took a deep breath.

Just as he stepped forward once more, the ground beneath him cracked—splintering like a shattered mirror—and dropped him into a vortex of black and crimson fog.

He fell—but he did not scream.

Ruslan descended through the thick, swirling fog like a feather, surrounded by memories made heavy with despair. When he landed, it was on soft grass. No injuries. No wounds.

He blinked.

Around him was a small circular garden, nestled in the center of an endless void of darkness. Flowers of blue, violet, and soft white bloomed in a ring around the garden’s edge. A lone tree stood in the center, its leaves golden and rustling as if whispering ancient lullabies. The fog remained just beyond the garden, clawing at its edges but never entering.

It was… peaceful.

Strangely familiar.

He remembered this.
A picnic.
His father’s laughter.
His brothers arguing over bread.
A moment of sunlight that had lived rent-free in his heart all these years.

He smiled… and then steeled himself.

On the far end of the garden stood another door wreathed in fire, almost identical to the first. Its flames were brighter now. Waiting.

Ruslan (quietly):
“…Simargl, I promise… I’ll protect them. Not just the Regalia. Not just my city.”
“But also… your story.”

“You don’t have to carry the sorrow alone anymore.”

He stepped toward the flame.

And it parted like a curtain for him—welcoming the boy who had no power, no prophecy, but a heart strong enough to carry the pain of these godly beasts.

The light was blinding.

But he didn’t look away.

Scene 8 : The Guardian's Trial

The ruined sprawl of ancient Pskov lay before Avi, Yudhir, and Varun—cracked walls blackened by old wars, silence heavy with lingering scars. Ahead, Simargl lay wounded upon fractured stones, and before the beast stood a lone figure. They approached cautiously, heartbeats echoing in the still air. As Avi opened his mouth to speak, the figure turned: the remembered visage of a emperor himself.

In their minds, Simargl’s voice reverberated :

“Before me stands the First Emperor Peter I Petrov of Volgorin Empire—tall and resolute even in memory, clad in a midnight-blue tunic embroidered with frost-and-flame motifs, draped with a fur-lined mantle shimmering with his steadfast will. His steel-gray eyes once shone with both compassionate warmth and unyielding determination; his neatly trimmed beard and tied-back chestnut hair framed a face ever ready to lean into action. I recall the pulse of his mana in the etched bracers at his wrists, the quiet promise in his posture: he would ride into danger himself rather than ask others to suffer. He spoke plainly, yet inspired trust: a visionary who modernized his realm without abandoning its soul.”

The figure chuckled, a sound both familiar and distant.
Peter (smiling wryly): “Enough, Simargl—stop pulling my leg. I’m not so grand. Now I’m but a fragment of memory, a shadow of what I once was. You three must have been drawn here by the true Simargl’s summons into this recollection.”

Varun (eyes wide): “Wait—real Simargl? Are you both illusions? Are we… illusions?”
Yudhir (rolling his eyes, gently): “Relax, Varun. He means this is a memory playing out inside Simargl’s mind.”
Avi (nodding): “So you are the First Emperor, and this is the moment you entrusted the Regalia to Simargl?”

Peter’s smirk deepened.
Peter: “Exactly. This is when I handed the Regalia to Simargl to guard. With his aid, I forged this hidden realm where he could conceal and protect it. That’s where you first met him—then traveled here in spirit.”

Avi: “But why make the realm accessible only through Pskov’s back door? Surely you could place its gate elsewhere, unreachable.”
Yudhir: “I’m guessing you needed someone to open it—but why?”
Peter: “You see correctly. Only someone of my bloodline could unlock the gate and reach Simargl.”
Varun (connecting dots): “Descendants—so Ruslan and Ostap are of your line?”
Simargl (via mental echo): “Blood alone is not enough. One must awaken Rod’s Essence within. That trial is no small feat. We knew a descendant would arise, though sooner than expected.”
Peter: “And your arrival—and that of your friends—were unforeseen variables. Perhaps you hold keys to our greater design.”
Yudhir: “Which design? Could our goals align?”
Peter (shaking his head): “I cannot reveal more, or the plan collapses—and my brother Ivan and sister Sophia would be disappointed in me.”
Avi (grinning): “We’ll uncover it ourselves—what’s the fun otherwise? Any side effects to Rod’s Essence in Ruslan? Any hint for the trial?”
Simargl: “Care for the child: he is central to our scheme against the Betrayer of Volgorin. As for the trial: you must fight me.”
Varun (alarmed): “But you are wounded—this won’t be fair!”

At his words, Simargl’s wounds knit themselves shut by innate regeneration. The guardian rose, towering over the three, roaring skyward in excitement at the challenge. The memory of Peter faded from their midst, then materialized upon a throne fashioned from the ruined stones—bearing witness, judge, and silent guide.

Yudhir (grinning at Varun): “Avi, if Varun speaks out of turn to any powerful foe again, give him a good beating.”
Avi (calmly): “Happy to oblige.”
Varun (mock exasperated): “Why am I always the one getting beaten?”

They took their stances before Simargl. Peter, seated on the throne, lifted a hand to signal the battle’s start. Just then, a flaming door opened at the battlefield’s edge—and through it stepped Ruslan, watching as the duel began.

Battle poised on the brink, each heart steady in its own way: Avi’s calm resolve, Yudhir’s wry courage, Varun’s dramatic zeal—and Ruslan arriving to witness the trial that will shape their fate.

The battlefield was no longer a memory—it was a furnace.

The ancient ruins of Pskov groaned beneath the fury of battle, magma craters bubbling and hissing like the breath of a dragon. The sky was dimmed under falling fireballs—searing orbs of molten wrath hurled by Simargl, crashing like meteors and leaving trails of smoke across the heavens.

Each explosion reshaped the earth, crumbling stone into charred ash. The once-sacred land was now an infernal arena, forged in flame and trial.

Avi, Yudhir, and Varun moved like streaks of defiance. Avi’s calm precision showed even in chaos—he conjured single-person ice walls in a strategic circle around Simargl, shielding them from each fiery volley. Like ghosts, the trio darted in and out of cover, launching sneak attacks from all angles.

Simargl, though mighty, began to read their rhythm. With a guttural snarl, it stomped its paw down, channeling magma through the debris—superheating the battlefield. The ground beneath them shimmered, forcing them to leap atop the very ice walls they once used for cover.

**Simargl roared—**and with that roar, the earth quaked.

The sonic blast sent the three boys flying, their bodies crashing into the blackened rubble. Pain lanced through them—but their fire didn’t extinguish. They rose, bruised yet undeterred.

Varun extended his hand, calling upon the storm inside. Water erupted, drenching the scorched field. Yudhir raised his arm skyward, shaping wind around the deluge, crafting a spinning whirlpool.

Avi’s eyes narrowed.

With surgical timing, he froze the vortex—encasing both water and Simargl in a glacial tomb. The beast snarled, encased in spiraling frost, struggling to shatter its bonds.

Without pause, Avi summoned a massive ice boulder overhead.

Crash! The impact split the frozen storm, driving Simargl to its knees. Wounded, yes—but not beaten. In a blink, its divine core flared, and the wounds mended.

Simargl rose.

Simargl (calmly, yet thunderous):
"The warm-up... is complete. I ask once: yield now, or face the true weight of my divine flame."

Avi (steady, eyes resolute):
"I don’t have all my memories… but the part I remember most clearly is this—my past self never stopped fighting for his friends."
"So don’t mistake my calm for surrender. I’ll keep fighting until I fall."

Varun (wiping blood from his brow, grinning):
"Still got plenty of juice left in me! C’mon, let’s finish this trial and go home heroes!"

Yudhir (focused, raising his hand):
"I’ve calculated the next move. Stay sharp—this plan needs precision from all of us."

On the battlefield's edge, a silent observer watched with folded arms.

Peter I Petrov, the First Emperor of Volgorin, his spectral form seated like a monarch of memory upon a throne sculpted from the ruins themselves. His eyes—steel grey and sorrowful—watched the battle, but his gaze now turned toward the trembling figure beside him.

Ruslan stood frozen—equal parts awe and confusion. His fists clenched. His heart raced.

Ruslan:
"Who... who are you? And why is Simargl fighting them like this?"

Peter (nodding, calm):
"I am Peter I Petrov. The First Emperor of Volgorin. And, more importantly, I am your ancestor."

Ruslan (shocked):
"Wh—What?! I’m from the royal bloodline…?! But… the Romanovs were wiped out, weren’t they? And the Red Winter took over. And… and in the scrolls—it said you gave the Regalias to the founders of the City-States. Then why does Simargl have it…?"

Peter (with a gentle laugh):
"You’re sharper than you look. The Regalia is with Simargl because he is the true founder of this city. The stories are shadows of truth, my child. Trust in this."

Ruslan (pleading):
"But I want to help! I don’t want to just stand here. I want to save my home… Why are you stopping me?!"

Peter’s expression grew somber—like a father passing down final words.

Peter:
"Because your trial… is different."
"Tell me, Ruslan… my descendant… if Simargl ever goes berserk again—like in the memory you witnessed—will you be the one to save him?"

Those words dug deep. Ruslan recalled his brother Ostap—once noble, now a cursed tree-creature… His hands trembled. His heart ached.

He closed his eyes and made a choice.

Ruslan (tears forming):
"I want to save him. I want to save Simargl… my brother… everyone I love. I’m not as brave or strong as the others—but I’ll carry what I must. I promise you, I will save them."

Peter smiled—one of quiet pride.

Peter (softly):
"Spoken like one of my blood. You carry my brother Ivan’s heart… the heart of one who never surrendered to darkness."

The battlefield exploded in motion.

Simargl summoned the Volkazhars—twisted firebeasts with glowing maws and jagged claws. They rushed the trio, snarling.

Avi launched an ice pillar from beneath Simargl, uppercutting its jaw. The beast reeled, stumbling.

Yudhir called to the skies, conjuring a violent typhoon, while Varun drowned the battlefield in a massive tidal wave, sweeping away the minions.

Wind and water twisted into a storm. Avi completed the triad—freezing the maelstrom into a prison of ice. Simargl, caught and disoriented, readied for the final strike.

A massive boulder of ice dropped from above. Simargl shattered it with its claws.

But something was wrong.

It was too light.

Too easy.

And then—Avi burst forth from the shards.

His eyes were cold as winter steel. His body coated in frost. His fist, a comet of freezing mana.

CRACK!
A punch to the beast's chest. Simargl staggered—then fell.

The well of ice rose around him. Water surged in. Winds howled, blinding him. Simargl tried to rise—then saw Avi, calm and silent, standing at the rim.

He leapt.

A single punch—water turned to ice upon impact—froze the divine beast solid. Simargl was sealed in a monolithic pillar of ice, radiant and unmoving.

Silence fell.

The battle was over.

The trio collapsed, breathless and victorious.

Avi (smiling faintly, exhausted):
"Maybe I went a bit overboard… but hey, at least I looked good doing it."

Varun (laughing):
"We did it!! That’s the power of never giving up, baby!"

Yudhir (nodding, peaceful):
"We’re a good team. Everyone played their role. But today… Avi was the star."

Varun:
"HELL YEAH! That was insane!"

Ruslan (running over, joyful):
"You did it! You really did it! Big bro, you’ve gotta teach me how to fight like that!"

Avi (ruffling his hair):
"One step at a time, kid. But remember this—your heart, your honesty… that’s your real strength. Never let it go."

Simargl stepped forth, free again. Peter stood beside him.

Avi:
"So… is it time to leave? Kinda wish this was all real."

Simargl (grinning):
"My real self is even stronger. I hope you’re ready for the next round."

Varun (panic):
"Wait, what?! This wasn’t even real?!"

Yudhir (placing a hand on his shoulder):
"But now we know how to win. That’s the experience we need most."

Ruslan:
"Will I… will I be strong enough to save you?"

Simargl (warmly):
"You already are."

Peter looked to the sky, speaking not just to Ruslan—but to history itself.

Peter (softly):
"There is no crown heavier than one forged by death and memory. A man does not live to escape death—he lives to defeat oblivion. And only through duty, sacrifice, and vision… can a soul echo beyond the silence of the grave."

Simargl stepped forward. A final roar shattered the memory realm.

A blinding white light swallowed the world.

In its final moments, the figures of Simargl and Peter stood still—like gods etched in time—as the world faded to white.

And the heroes… passed out, their hearts forever changed.