Ch 6 : Andry, Alkonost & Novgorod ( Part - 2 )

Scene 4 : Dyadya and Godfather

The cold wind swept through the streets of Novgorod, carrying with it the scent of ash and something stranger—Zhivava, faint but stirring. In the distance, panic brewed, but it hadn't yet reached this part of the city. Outside the heavy stone facade of the Rosgvard’s City Branch Office, two figures stood still in the crisp morning light.

Chief Mikhail Zolotnikov, composed as ever, adjusted the collar of his Stersly coat. Beside him, Andry Petrovik, younger and still bearing faint bandages beneath his uniform, shifted uneasily.

The great iron doors creaked open, and a Rosgvard officer stepped out, armor plates clinking as he raised a fist to his chest in salute.

Rosgvard Officer: “Chief Zolotnikov, sir. The Boss is expecting you.”

Andry’s brows furrowed as he leaned toward Mikhail, voice low.

Andry (whispering): “Boss? Isn’t the title supposed to be Guard Commander?”

Mikhail smiled faintly, not breaking stride as he stepped forward.

Mikhail (whispering): “That’s just what they call him. An old habit from the early rebellion days—comes with loyalty and fear. You’ll understand when you meet him.”

Andry swallowed. The air inside the Rosgvard branch was dense—not with incense or smoke, but with discipline. There were no idle guards here. Every uniform was ironed crisp, every step measured, every stare sharp. A place where hesitation had no home.

The two men stepped past the threshold, not knowing the storm that had already begun to rise just outside, as a radiant energy whispered through Novgorod’s alleys, lighting the fuse of something far greater than them all.

The thick wooden doors of the Rosgvard Commander’s Office groaned open, letting in the faint traces of cigar smoke that curled in lazy wisps through the high-beamed ceiling. The room was dimly lit, save for the sharp shafts of light slicing through slatted windows, illuminating dust motes in midair.

At the far end, behind a massive desk of polished redwood, sat a broad-shouldered figure—cloaked in a heavy overcoat, shoulders squared, and a thick cigar clenched between his teeth. His chair was turned away, facing the frosted window overlooking the snow-draped city below.

The scent of gun oil, smoke, and leather permeated the space. Silence reigned—until the man behind the chair exhaled a long trail of smoke.

Rosgvard Commander: “So, the Chief of Stersly visits me today. Must be important.”

His voice was gravel on steel. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.

As Mikhail Zolotnikov and Andry stepped inside, the chair turned slowly. The smoke parted.

His eyes—sharp, grey, and cold as the Novgorod frost—locked onto Andry’s uniform.

And in that instant… something snapped.

The cigar dropped to the floor, forgotten.

With terrifying speed, the commander lunged forward. His gloved hand clamped around Andry’s throat, lifting the boy clean off the floor like a ragdoll. Andry gasped, eyes wide, feet kicking for purchase as his back hit the nearby cabinet with a thud.

Rosgvard Commander (furious, voice like thunder): “You. You’re the boy. The one my junior described. The one she trusted. The one who was with her when she was taken!”

Mikhail (startled, stepping forward): “Commander! Let him go! He’s not the enemy—he tried to save her!”

But the man wasn’t listening.

Rosgvard Commander (growling, eyes blazing): “My goddaughter is missing. My loyal man—dead. And you walk in here, wearing Pskov colors, dragging your shame into my office?”

Andry choked, struggling to speak. “I… tried… to protect…”

Mikhail moved in, his voice sharper now, firm with the weight of authority.

Mikhail: “Commander Rykov! Stand down! He’s a Stersly soldier. And more than that—he’s a witness. You kill him, and we lose everything.”

The Guard Commander’s grip was tight—too tight. Mikhail was preparing to intervene when Andry, choking for breath, opened his eyes and noticed a painting hanging behind the desk. His vision blurred from pain and shock, yet something about the image pierced through.

Andry (voice hoarse, eyes wide with disbelief): “My mother… why do you have… her photo?”

The Guard Commander froze. His eyes slowly followed Andry’s trembling finger toward the old painting. The hand clutching Andry’s neck began to tremble. He dropped the boy in stunned silence.

Mikhail stepped forward cautiously, watching the emotional shift in the towering man.

Guard Commander (in disbelief): “What… did you just say? That’s not possible. She never married. That’s my sister.”

Andry (coughing, holding his throat): “She’s my mother… I was just a child when she was taken back by her family…”

Guard Commander: “No… that can’t be. That makes no sense.”

Mikhail (softly, connecting the dots): “Unless your parents kept the truth from you, Commander. You were away at the capital for training when it happened, right? During those five years, your older sister… eloped. With a man from Pskov. They had a child—Andry. When your parents found out, they brought her back… forcibly. And hid everything.”

The Guard Commander staggered back, as if struck. His fists clenched at his side.

Guard Commander (painful whisper): “But why…? Why didn’t they tell me… even on their deathbeds? My sister… she fell into a coma just after… was it the shock of losing her family?”

Mikhail (solemnly): “She likely couldn’t bear the pain of being torn from her son and husband. Her spirit broke.”

Andry’s voice cracked, heavy with tears.

Andry: “Then… you’re my Dyadya…?”

The Commander’s eyes welled up as he pulled Andry into a tight, shaking embrace.

Guard Commander (through choked sobs): “I’m sorry… my nephew. I hurt you—I’m a terrible uncle…”

Andry (softly, with teary eyes): “No… it’s okay. You didn’t know. But I have to ask… is Alena really your goddaughter?”

Guard Commander (nodding, voice thick with emotion): “Yes. Her mother and mine were close—best friends. After my sister fell into a coma, they began visiting regularly, bringing Alenushka with them. One day, they asked me to be her godfather… but on one condition: I had to keep my distance. Someone was threatening them. I still don’t know who.”

Mikhail: “Her parents died saving lives during the outbreak… she’s been alone ever since.”

Andry (firmly): “Then we have to save her. My mother would want me to protect the people she loved. I’ll see her again—after I bring Alena back safely.”

Guard Commander (composing himself): “You have the blood of our family. We’ll save Alenushka first. Then… we’ll go to your mother.”

Andry (smiling faintly): “I have two brothers too—one older, one younger.”

Guard Commander (eyes widening): “Three nephews? Saints above… I need to meet your father. We have much to talk about.”

Mikhail chuckled and clapped both men on the shoulder.

Mikhail: “Then let’s make a plan. No more waiting, Guard Commander Rykov.”

Boris Rykov—Rosgvard’s revered Commander, known to his men as “Boss”—stood tall once again. His purpose now rekindled. He was no longer just a soldier. He was a godfather. A Dyadya {means uncle} . And there was someone out there threatening the people he loved.

And Strzygomir had no idea what fury he had invited.

Back in the grand chamber of the City Council, the domed ceiling echoed with murmurs and debates as the Veche—the elected elders and ministers of Novgorod—sat in polished semi-circular rows. At the center of it all sat Mayor Alexander Nevsky, composed and regal in his long ceremonial coat. The golden emblem of Novgorod gleamed with silver fish symbol behind him, casting a holy glow over his throne-like seat.

His eyes swept the chamber—keen, cold, calculating—yet his expression was nothing short of serene. None of them saw through the mask. Not the smile stretched with practiced elegance. Not the gentle cadence of his voice. And certainly not the madness roiling beneath his composed shell.

As the discussions dragged on—topics ranging from city grain reserves to minor trade disputes—Alexander raised his gloved hand, palm slightly open, a gesture of refined command.

His voice cut through the murmurs with velvet authority.

Alexander:
"Esteemed members of the Veche… I do not wish to conclude today’s proceedings with a bitter aftertaste, but I believe it is time we address the elephant in the room."

The councilmen leaned forward, sensing the shift.

Alexander (softly, but deliberately):
"It is with a heavy heart—but also with resolve—that I propose we begin laying the groundwork for our response to Pskov. Namely, a formal war plan."

Gasps broke the quiet. Murmurs rose again—some voices were sharp with outrage, others silent in grim contemplation. The ancient rivalry between Novgorod and Pskov was no secret, and while scattered skirmishes had occurred over the past year, most hoped war could still be avoided.

Alexander (raising his hand again, calming):
"Let us not pretend that this is a sudden whim. Our border patrols report continual encroachments. Trade sabotage. Cultural disrespect. The wounds from past defeats are still open… festering."

He paused just long enough for the silence to tighten.

"But I am not reckless. I am not suggesting we charge blindly into war. Not without the divine favor of the Regalia."

Several council members relaxed at the mention of the sacred Regalia—the mythical relic lost since the Great Tartar Invasion. To most, it meant delay. To Alexander, it meant control.

Elder Markovich:
"But the Regalia has been lost for decades, your excellency. Are you suggesting it might be found?"

Alexander’s smile deepened, polished like glass.

Alexander:
"My dear Markovich… I merely say we must be prepared. Should the Regalia return to our hands—divinely or otherwise—we must not be caught flat-footed. I have therefore drafted a preliminary battle strategy, which I humbly submit to this council for review."

He signaled to an aide, who brought forth scrolls with precise military formations, infrastructure use, and command designations.

What none of them knew—what they could not imagine—was that Alexander had already taken steps beyond preparation. The Regalia was no myth to him. The ritual had already begun.

And the warlord Gabriel, his hidden ace, was deep in the barracks training a generation of elite soldiers. Men forged in silence. Loyal to no council. Bound only to him.

The members of the Veche, lulled by the structure of a formal process, believed they were still in control.

They were not.

The true mastermind had always been Alexander Nevsky.

For months—no, years—he had orchestrated it all like a puppeteer behind crimson curtains. The border skirmishes? Fabricated, paid for with gold funneled through black channels. The bandits who raided the trade routes? Mercenaries, masked to look like Poskovian militias. The disappearances, the fear, the rising hatred? Strzygomir's work, fine-tuned to target civilians who wouldn’t be missed. And the Red Winter? They watched from above, pleased that their illusion of order remained intact.

Alexander had made sure of that—corrupting just enough officials in the capital, smiling just enough in public appearances, staging just enough crises to fan the flames. He turned a cold diplomatic tension into seething hatred.

And now, all that remained was the spark.

As the Veche meeting dragged toward its usual closure, he could almost hear the ticking in his mind. Soon. His fingers curled around the cube in his coat pocket. Just one flick of his thumb.

Then fate complied.

A city guard burst through the chamber doors.

Guard (urgent):
“Esteemed sirs! A high-level surge of Zhivava has been detected beneath the city—likely from the sewer network. Rosgvard officials are investigating.”

Perfect.

Alexander smiled inwardly. It was time. At last, I can take off this mask.

No one noticed the subtle press of his thumb against the smooth surface of the hidden cube.

A whisper.

A click.

And then—obliteration.

The entire City Council building erupted in a thunderous blaze, the ceiling collapsing inwards, fire curling like a serpent devouring the stone. Screams. Shattering glass. A shockwave that split the square. Most of the Veche were incinerated on impact. Others screamed under rubble. Fire danced across scrolls, wood, flesh, and flag.

But not Alexander.

No—he had calculated the angle of the explosion, the placement of the cube, the burn radius. The blast tossed him across the room, tore his robes, burned half his face—but left him standing.

Bloodied. Smouldering. Alive.

Staggering through the smoke like a tragic hero, he emerged from the ruins. Panic had consumed the crowd. Rosgvard and Stersly soldiers rushed in, pulling survivors from the wreckage. The moment Alexander appeared, the rescuers swarmed him.

Soldier:
“Mr. Mayor! You need medical aid immediately—”

Alexander (weak but defiant):
“No… no. I must speak to the people… now.”

They obeyed.

A communication crystal was brought, glowing faintly with a transmission rune. Alexander stood amidst the fire and ash, wrapped in the smog of his own carnage. A man burned, scarred—and glorified.

He began his speech with a perfect tremble in his voice.

Alexander (broadcast):
“My beloved citizens of Novgorod… this is your mayor, Alexander Nevsky.”

“I speak to you not just as a leader… but as a fellow survivor of a terrible tragedy. As many of you may already fear, a terrorist explosion took place within the City Council today. I myself… narrowly escaped with my life. Many of your respected elders—your voices of wisdom—are dead.”

Gasps echoed across households, streets, and crystal-fed receivers.

Alexander paused… perfectly.

Then he spoke with sorrow twisted into steel.

Alexander:
“I fear this was not random. As I awoke amidst the flames… I found this.”

He held up a charred piece of metal, the burned insignia of Pskov, previously planted by his own hand.

“I wish I could say otherwise, but I believe this to be the work of Poskovian agents. It is clear they seek not only to destabilize our city… but to break our spirit.”

“But we will not bend.”

“Even now, I have summoned Warlord Gabriel from his expeditions. He will return soon—and when he does, we shall take the necessary actions. Until then, I ask for your strength. Your unity. Your faith.”

“Novgorod will not fall. Long live Novgorod!”

He ended the transmission with a grim expression, bowing his head—not in humility, but to hide the smile that crawled beneath.

Around him, the people wept and cheered.

They had no idea.

No idea that their “hero” had lit the fire, killed their leaders, planted the blame, and was now paving the way for war. The final chessboard was laid. The public was his. The officials were ash. The enemy had a face—and it was Pskov.

The war had already begun.

In the Rosgvard’s Novgorod Branch Office, the mood was grim.

The speech of Mayor Alexander Nevsky still echoed from the communication crystals, its poisonous rhetoric settling like ash in the air. Soldiers murmured in corners, tension slicing through the walls like a drawn blade. Mikhail, Rykov, and Andry stood silently before a glowing console, the words “Pskov… terrorist… attack…” playing on repeat in the minds of everyone who had heard it.

Andry’s heart raced. The room was cold, but sweat clung to his back. He looked toward his uncle, Guard Commander Boris Rykov, whose face was stone-hard.

Rykov (pacing, fists clenched):
“Why the hell is everything falling apart at once? First the kidnapping, then that damn scientist, and now someone blew up the City Council?!”
He turned sharply to Andry. “From now on, you’re not leaving this building. Not even to breathe fresh air.”

Andry (anxious):
“But Uncle, Alena—”

Mikhail (firm, interjecting):
“Andry. Listen. Your uncle might have to kill you himself if you're discovered. Either that or leave behind his post, his homeland, everything. This city will eat you alive the moment they find out you're a Poskovian in the middle of a terrorist panic.”

Andry (lowering his head):
“…I understand. I’ll stay. But… please… bring her back. And then… maybe we can go see my mother together.”

Rykov let out a tired breath, the fury in his eyes softening. He stepped forward and ruffled Andry’s hair roughly, a small chuckle escaping his throat despite the tension.

Rykov (gruff, fondly):
“Stubborn like your mother. Look, I know you’re a soldier. But before that, you’re my nephew. So this is an order, yeah? Stay sharp. Stay hidden. If I call you in for backup, you better be ready to bite. Here—”
He handed him a small obsidian communication crystal with red veins.
“—use this to stay in touch. And if anyone finds you before we’re back—vanish. Got it?”

Andry (smiling faintly):
“Got it. You too, uncle… Come back with Alena.”

The bond between them had grown stronger with every minute. A new fire now flickered in both men—one for blood, one for rescue.

But the moment didn’t last.

Mikhail’s crystal vibrated.

He brought it to his ear. The voice on the other end was quick, clipped, familiar.

Lev Sidorov (urgent):
“Chief, it’s me. The team we formed to investigate the energy surge—you were right. It did come from the sewers. We found a hidden entrance… concealed, but not naturally. It’s built with intention.”

Mikhail (leaning forward):
“Excellent. We’re finally getting somewhere.”

Lev (strained):
“Sir, the entrance is locked. Not just barred—sealed with some kind of ancient mechanism. Magical.”

Mikhail:
“What kind of seal?”

Lev:
“It needs Zhivava input—but not ordinary levels. It’s calibrated to only open if massive Zhivava is channeled into the core. We're talking… Rosgvard Commander or Stersly Chief-level.”

Mikhail’s blood ran cold.

Mikhail (eyes wide):
“You’re sure?”

Lev:
“Positive. I’ve never seen a lock like this in all my years with Stersly. This thing was made to keep everyone out—except the powerful.”

Rykov stepped forward, jaw clenched.

Rykov:
“Chief, tell your men to seal the area. I’m going in.”

Mikhail (frowning):
“You’d be walking into the lion’s den alone. No—this is bigger than either of us now. I’m coming with you.”

Rykov (nodding):
“Then we go together.”

Mikhail (back to crystal):
“Lev. Lock the zone down. Nobody gets in or out unless it’s us. We’re moving now.”

Lev (firmly):
“Yes, Chief.”

Mikhail pocketed the crystal and turned to Andry, whose face had hardened with unspoken fear and guilt.

Rykov (with a tight smile):
“Stay here, Andry. I’ll come back with Alenushka.”

The door slammed shut behind them, and Andry was left standing in the now-silent war room of Rosgvard HQ, gripping the crystal in his hand like a lifeline.

Outside, the city was collapsing into hysteria.

Underground, a storm was waiting to be unleashed.

And far beneath their feet, two unconscious bodies—one divine, one deranged—waited in a lab filled with secrets.

Scene 5 : Black Physician's Lab

Inside the Lab…

The air reeked of scorched metal and ozone, the aftermath of the explosive awakening still lingering like an invisible storm cloud. Alena lay limp, bound once again to the reinforced steel bed—her breath shallow, her limbs twitching faintly from the trauma her body had endured.

Across the room, the deranged genius known as Strzygomir, the Black Physician, stirred amidst the debris of broken glass, cracked alchemical pipes, and warped machinery. His white coat was singed at the collar, his hair tousled, eyes wide with obsession. The blast had knocked him unconscious—but it had also proven everything.

Strzygomir (whispering to himself, voice rising with excitement):
“Yes… yes… Yesss! This is it. This is what I needed—what I’ve chased for decades!”

He stumbled to his feet with surprising grace, his joints cracking as he limped toward a corner of the lab and dragged out a strange metallic box, humming softly with enchantments. Its centerpiece was a circular conduit glowing faintly—a hungry mouth waiting to consume the divine.

Strzygomir (muttering):
“You did well, girl. Better than expected. I’ve tested dozens, hundreds even, but none bore the spark… not like you. You’re the answer to my first question.”
‘How to trigger the Rod’s Factor inside a subject’s body?’
He cackled. “Emotion… fear… pain… loss—such delicious catalysts!”

He hovered over her limp form, securing her again with newly charged magical bindings. The machine’s tendrils slithered into place, curling around her wrists and temples like metallic vines. The conduit lit up as it began siphoning Zhivava straight from her core.

Alena let out a muffled scream—weak but filled with agony.

Strzygomir (gently, mockingly):
“Oh hush, child. Art demands sacrifice. And thanks to you, I’ll find the Regalia… once I answer my second question.”
‘What conditions are required for a Rod-bearer to reveal the path to the Regalia?’

The cube pulsed brighter and brighter, soaking in every thread of divine essence. Only once the energy matrix was full did Strzygomir power it down. Alena’s body collapsed back, still breathing—but shaken to the soul.

He caressed the cube with almost fatherly affection.

Strzygomir (ecstatic):
“Ahhh… this will last me years—decades, perhaps. Imagine what I’ll build with this! Imagine who I’ll become!”

But then… his jubilant expression froze.

A rune along his gauntlet began to glow. A signal—someone had triggered the perimeter defense. He dashed across the lab toward his observation panel, a crude monitor linked to surveillance spells that scanned across the sewer channels. A static-laced image flickered into focus.

Two men. High-ranking. One in a dark uniform of the Stersly, the other bearing the Rosgvard insignia, the unmistakable cape of a Guard Commander draped over one shoulder.

Strzygomir (low growl):
“Zolotnikov… and Rykov. Of course.”

He readjusted his cracked lenses, studying them with warped curiosity. His fingers danced across the control panel, activating countermeasures hidden across the tunnel walls. Electric runes surged to life, traps embedded in the walls whispered open like blooming death-lilies.

Then he saw the alert from above—the speech. Alexander had enacted the next stage.

Strzygomir (darkly amused):
“Oh… so that was your cue, Alexander. I see. You play your little games with fire, and I clean up the ashes.”

He took the charged cube, locking it inside a mechanical cradle infused with security spells. His shadow loomed long across the cold stone walls as he marched toward the center of the lab.

Strzygomir:
“Well then, gentlemen… shall we begin?”

Outside the Lab – Sewer Entrance, Hidden Passage

Mikhail Zolotnikov and Guard Commander Boris Rykov stood before a massive metallic gateway disguised with ancient sewer brick. Strange geometric patterns blinked dimly, absorbing the ambient Zhivava in the air.

A group of Rosgvard and Stersly soldiers stood at a distance, watching nervously. None dared approach the lock mechanism—none had the strength to open it.

Mikhail (gritting his teeth):
“Just as Lev said. This is no ordinary seal.”

Rykov (rolling up his sleeves):
“Doesn’t matter. We’re not ordinary men.”

The two commanders stood shoulder to shoulder. Rykov extended his palm toward the conduit embedded in the gate. Mikhail mirrored him.

A pulse of raw Zhivava surged from both men—dark red and piercing gold. The symbols on the gate began to twist and interlock, drinking the power hungrily like a desert storm.

Suddenly—CLANK. The gate hissed open.

A slow, damp gust of air escaped from the tunnel beyond. It reeked of alchemy, smoke, and something else—death soaked in magic.

Rykov (tightening his gloves):
“I can already smell his stench.”

Mikhail (calm but focused):
“Let’s finish what we started.”

They descended into the abyss.

Behind them, the sewer gate sealed shut, and the shadows swallowed their silhouettes.

Inside the Infirmary Room – Novgorod Hospital

The room was quiet, save for the low hum of medical enchantments. A blonde man lay on the central bed—his body bandaged, his face charred and cracked. But under the careful hands of Novgorod’s top doctors—masters of Zhivava healing—his flesh began to stitch itself back into place.

The man was Alexander Nevsky, the Mayor of Novgorod.

His appearance slowly returned to its dignified form, the one his people revered. The doctors finished their work silently and bowed, stepping away as he gave a slight wave of dismissal.

Alexander (calmly):
“I need some peace… please leave me alone for a moment.”

One by one, the officials and medics cleared out. The heavy door clicked shut behind them.

And in the silence… a crooked smile spread across Alexander’s lips.

It twisted, curved unnaturally.

And then—he laughed. A sharp, jagged laugh, like a blade scraping across bone.

Alexander (mocking, muttering):
“Hahahah… these morons… they actually believe I’m a hero.”

He sat up slowly, stretching his arms as if shrugging off the weight of his false injuries.

Alexander:
“They don’t even realize what’s coming. Novgorod will crush Pskov. And then… the Red Winter itself.”

He stood from the bed, walking toward the window as moonlight cut through the misty glass panes. His voice lowered but grew sharper, like venom on the tip of a knife.

Alexander:
“With both Regalias in my grasp, and through every scheme I’ve set in motion… I’ll raise the next revolution. I’ll tear down their thrones. And when that day comes…”

He clenched his fist, a faint spark of his inner power pulsing through his veins.

Alexander:
“No one will stop me.”

He reached for a hidden compartment in the bedside table and pulled out a communication device—a small crystalline orb, smoothed and polished, humming softly with distortion wards.

He activated it.

The connection flared for a second, then stabilized. On the other end, a distorted voice spoke—deep, unreadable, older than Alexander’s. The man was clearly from Pskov, his voice intentionally masked to avoid recognition.

Distorted Voice:
“…So, you’ve called.”

Alexander (coldly):
“Yes. It’s time.”

The communication line was cut but the intent was delivered, now just wait for the results.

Alexander:
“War is coming. Be ready, Pskov. I’ll make you pay… for everything your ancestors did to mine.”

The voices faded.

And in the quiet that followed, the only sound left was Alexander’s slow, eerie laughter.

The Sewers Beneath Novgorod — Entrance to the Lab

The air was thick with sulphur and tension. Booby traps hissed to life like awakened serpents—razor wires, shifting walls, alchemical landmines, and conjured monstrosities born of bio-alchemy and madness.

Yet two men carved their way forward.

Guard Commander Boris Rykov, the Iron Flame of Novgorod, stood at the front like an unshakable war machine. His gauntlets—sleek, crimson-forged, and glowing with pulsing runes—flared with steam each time they struck, spitting embers like a forge in revolt.

"Get behind me," he growled, his voice like tempered steel.

A wall shifted—intended to crush and grind. Boris slammed his fist into it with a grunt, his burning chain lashing out, wrapping the top segment. With a heave, he ripped the wall down, reducing it to molten rubble.

Chimeras—grotesque fusions of beasts and discarded bodies—crawled from alcoves and ceiling vents, eyes glowing with mindless hate. They lunged at him.

But Boris didn’t step back.

He charged into them like a cannonball, fists flying in a flurry. Left jab. Right elbow. Ground slam. His Iron Gauntlets roared with each punch—shockwaves rippling through creatures, walls, and the very foundation of the sewer. Cracks spider-webbed beneath his boots.

One tried to flee. His burning chain lashed around its throat, dragging it back. He punched through its chest mid-air.

At the rear, Chief Mikhail Zolotnikov, the Golden Judge of Stersly, moved like a ghost with purpose.

He didn’t fight like Boris.

He flowed.

His golden threads of Zhivava spun illusions between the walls, confounding enemies and making him blur between shadows. The Mind Fog Field slowed time in his mind—he saw movements before they happened, decisions before they were made.

A chimera pounced.

Mikhail vanished.

Then reappeared beside it, whispering:

“You’ve already lost.”

A shot echoed—a single bullet to the temple. The creature crumpled, unaware it had even been attacked.

Then came the buffed ones.

Two monstrous chimeras, bloated with refined Zhivava injections, smashed through the floor and roared with mindless fury. One tackled Boris into the wall, cracking it with explosive force.

“Boris!!” Mikhail turned, preparing to intervene.

But in the shattered rubble, a voice like thunder answered:

“I’m not done yet!”

Boris planted his feet on the wall, eyes burning with fury. The flames on his gauntlets spiraled violently. His whole body tensed as the fire converged into his fists, swirling like a firestorm around molten iron.

He launched himself forward like a comet—toward the chimera that had dared strike him.

"Judgment Ember: PYRA BREAKER!"

The flaming uppercut connected. The blow tore through the chimera’s jaw, lifted its massive body into the air—and sent it crashing through the ceiling above. A pillar of fire roared behind it, the tunnel erupting with light and thunder.

Crackling silence remained.

The second chimera lunged toward Mikhail, now exposed.

But Mikhail didn’t blink.

He exhaled… and time slowed again.

In this still world, he walked forward—each step echoing like a verdict. His revolver gleamed with golden seals etched across the barrel.

“...Final thread.”

He pulled the trigger.

"Golden Verdict."

One shot. One flash.

The bullet shredded through the chimera’s defenses, its will unraveling like cut strings. The beast collapsed to its knees, stunned, then fell face-first—unconscious, subdued, judged.

Together, the two legends stood amid the rubble, steaming bodies at their feet.

The Iron Flame and the Golden Judge—unstoppable, unmatched.

Boris wiped blood from his cheek, breathing heavily. “How many more you think are down there?”

Mikhail holstered his revolver. “Enough to make this interesting.”

They looked at each other—no words needed.

They weren’t done yet.

And deep in the lab, the one who awaited them was preparing his next move.

The Black Physician had just felt the tremor of their blows.

And he was smiling.