Ch 6 : Andry, Alkonost & Novgorod ( Part - 3 )

Scene 6 : Fist of Iron Flames

In an old house soaked with warmth and sorrow, a memory lived.

It wasn’t grand, nor luxurious—but within its aged wooden beams and creaking floors once echoed laughter, lullabies, and the gentle strings of a gusli. There, a girl had lived—a fragile ember of light in a world growing colder with each passing day.

Her name was Alena.

A child touched by both tragedy and grace. Her beauty was quiet, not made of jewels or riches, but of the soft resilience in her eyes and the tender songs she played. The gusli, taught by her late mother, became her voice when words failed. Every evening she played before the statue of Alkonost, the celestial bird of hope and sorrow. Some stopped to listen. Some left without a word.

But Alena always smiled—through hunger, through solitude, through the silence of an empty house.
A smile not born of ignorance… but defiance.

Though she lived alone, barely scraping together enough coin to survive two days at a time, she never begged fate for mercy. Her hands worked. Her soul endured.

Then… one day… someone came.

A boy.

Andry.

He didn’t treat her like the others. He didn’t speak to her like a charity case or look at her with pity. He listened—really listened—to the melodies she played. He shared her laughter, her little joys, her clumsy jokes, her meals cooked with care from meager ingredients.

And slowly… she changed.

Her guarded heart, long wrapped in grief, began to flutter.
A glance from him made her chest ache. A quiet moment with him made her smile more freely than she had in years.

“Is this what it feels like… to be seen?”

She knew. Deep inside, she knew—this boy wouldn’t stay forever.
He had come from a far-off city, chasing shadows of his mother’s past.
And one day… he would leave.

And yet… she couldn’t help it.

Now, she sat alone again—on the old swing hanging outside her little house. The evening breeze danced through the trees, but all she could feel was emptiness. Her hands gripped the rope. Her head lowered.

She wept—not for her lost parents this time.

But for him.

“Please… not again. Don’t let me lose him too…”

The weight of her past tragedies pressed into her chest.
The abandonment. The struggle. The loneliness.
And now the thought of losing the one light she found in this long, dark winter.

It cracked something inside her.

A torrent of emotion erupted—grief, yearning, rage, love, helplessness—and in that moment… her soul screamed through her Zhivava.

The wind around her trembled. The flowers near the swing shuddered and bloomed out of season. The statue of Alkonost gave off a faint ethereal glow, and the strings of the gusli inside the house hummed on their own—resonating.

And her Rod’s Factor awakened.

Not from ritual.

Not from prophecy.

But from the most human thing of all—pain born of love.

Unseen by her, across the vast land, other fragments of the Romanov bloodline stirred in their sleep. Their hearts pounded. Their Zhivava reacted.
Some felt warmth. Some felt fear.

The blood of royalty had awakened once more.

And this time… it would not go unnoticed.

Strzygomir’s Laboratory — Moments Before Infiltration

The Black Physician stood hunched over a cluttered workbench, gloved fingers dancing across glowing runes and flickering tubes of colored Zhivava. Cracks in the ceiling leaked a faint shimmer of mana from the nearing heroes. His lenses reflected the chaos in real-time—his defenses crumbling under the twin onslaught of Novgorod's finest.

He chuckled to himself.

Strzygomir (mocking tone, muttering):
“Tch… Persistent vermin. You’ve ruined months of simulations. I must applaud you for the carnage though.”

He reached for his obsidian suitcase—filled with delicate notes, arcane devices, and most importantly, the machine box siphoning Alena’s awakened Zhivava. Her power, compressed into that cube, glowed like a caged star.

Strzygomir (raising his voice, theatrically):
“You two gentlemen have made me play this card. Now, like some cliché villain, I’m forced to flee before the valiant heroes arrive. How disappointing.”

He flipped a lever hidden under the lab's central table. A circular rune on the floor behind him ignited, revealing a backward exit into a tunnel that sloped upward and behind—carved to breach the bedrock and surface under the river above.

Strzygomir (grinning wide, voice venomous):
“But unlike those fools in storybooks, I’ll leave you a little… surprise.”

He gestured at a glimmering orb mounted above the lab—crackling with unstable energy.

Strzygomir:
“You see… this lab rests directly beneath the river. And when that failsafe explodes—well, it won’t be just water rushing in. I’ve laced this place with volatile Zhivava particles. It will collapse… and drown… and melt.”

He paused at the exit, eyes gleaming with madness.

Strzygomir (last words before vanishing):
“But don’t worry—that’s not the surprise.”

And with that, he vanished through the tunnel—leaving the gate sealed, alarms rising, and a catastrophe primed to ignite.

Tunnel Passage — Outside the Final Gate

The air reeked of chemicals and scorched mana. The path behind was littered with smoking chimeras and broken traps. At the center of the chaos stood Boris Rykov and Mikhail Zolotnikov, battle-worn but unyielding.

Boris (panting, shoulders heaving):
“Wait… give me a moment. This bastard built more defenses than a damn fortress.”

His fists were steaming, scorch marks swirling around the gauntlets like branding iron halos.

Mikhail (voice sharp with rage):
“He’s no ordinary lunatic, Boris. I’ve dealt with war criminals, manipulators, traitors—but this… this is madness. How many people has he taken? How did no one notice?”

Boris (gritting his teeth):
“Exactly why he’s in the top three of Red Winter’s most wanted. A roach hiding beneath bureaucrats and bloodied corridors. But this ends now.”

Mikhail nodded grimly.

Mikhail:
“When we breach, I’ll move for Alena. She’s priority. You focus on drawing his attention.”

Boris (chuckling, slamming his fists together—flames bursting faintly):
“Gladly. If he wants a monster, he’ll get one.”

Without hesitation, Boris drew back his fist and slammed it into the reinforced door. Fire spiraled around his gauntlets, and with a metallic shriek and melting hiss, a hole was blasted open—just enough to push through.

But the moment the seal broke—the entire lab trembled.

A glyph on the far wall lit up, and a pulse of destabilized mana surged through the structure. The hum of active magic grew violent.

Mikhail (eyes narrowing):
“Tremors. Fail-safes triggered.”

Boris (grim):
“He knew we’d reach him. This is his way of making sure we don’t leave.”

They exchanged a glance—brotherhood forged in duty and fire.

And stepped through.

Deep Within the Lab

Somewhere in the farthest corridor of Strzygomir’s underground lab—past the shattered glass tubes, broken surgical arms, and discarded limbs of failed experiments—a low growl stirred the silence.

The tremor from Boris’ seismic punch rippled through the facility… and reached a place meant to remain untouched.

The chamber was circular, sealed by reinforced obsidian alloy, layered with binding glyphs, and lit only by the dim pulse of a single crimson rune etched into the ceiling. At its center stood a cage—not a traditional one, but a thick prism of multi-tiered runic barriers, humming with energy.

And within that cage… something moved.

The creature growled again. The sound was wet, bone-grinding—a rumble born not from the throat, but from deep within a body stretched past human limits.

It had once been a man—long ago. But now it was nothing but sinew, plated muscle, and warped bone. Fused limbs. A jaw that unhinged like a serpent. Its skin was tattooed with branding marks—Strzygomir’s failed sigils, burned into flesh that no longer bled.

It was not a chimera.
It was not a soldier.
It was a mistake.

A mistake so dangerous that even the Black Physician had locked it away, incapable of fully controlling it.

And now…

The cage cracked.

The tremors had dislodged the top glyph—a cascade of failing enchantments followed like dominoes. Red sparks snapped in the air as the prison shattered into a whirlwind of collapsing runes.

The creature stepped forward.

At first, slow—its joints popping back into motion after a long slumber.

Then…

BANG. BANG. CRACK.

It rammed through the reinforced door of its containment room with ease, sending twisted metal crashing into the walls. The lab trembled again—not from seismic force this time, but from its sheer weight and momentum.

It raised its head, nostrils flaring.

It had caught the scent.

Not of Alena.
Not of Strzygomir.

But of two warriors. The ones that had awakened it. The ones that burned with power.

Its many eyes flickered open—some human, some… not. All locked in one direction.

It growled again—no longer in confusion.

But in hunger.

Its massive claws dug into the tiles as it crawled, then sprinted, toward the scent. It didn’t care about the collapsing ceiling. It didn’t care about the alarms or the river's unstable mana pressure.

It only cared about the hunt.

Behind the Final Lab Gate – With Boris and Mikhail

Just as the two heroes stepped through the melted gate, they felt it.

A shiver. A pulse.

Something had awakened.

Boris (instinctively looking over his shoulder):
“...You felt that too, right?”

Mikhail (tense):
“That wasn’t just the lab crumbling. Something’s coming. Something old.”

Boris (gritting his teeth):
“Then we finish this quickly. Whatever it is—it’s not on our side.”

Boris and Mikhail entered the lab, looking through each door to find any survivors. But the time was short, they need to find Alena otherwise they would have to face the monster coming. As Boris was getting more tensed and impatient Mikhail kept a cool head in this situation.

Mikhail (shouting) : “Rykov,… I got her. Quickly come to this room.”

As soon as Boris heard him he ran fast to him. When he reached there he saw Alena lying weak in a lab bed drained of her Zhivava. She was barely hanging almost a miracle and now her Zhivava had awakened too. He felt a variety of emotions - sorrow, rage, regret and helplessness. He wanted let his emotions out but had to remain compose and focus on saving her first & leave this lab first.

Mikhail : “I know it’s very hard to see her in this state but bear it for now. Let’s get out of her first before that thing reaches us.”

Boris (emotional) : “Yeah… Yeah… you are right. Let’s keep going.”

Boris took her feeble body in her two arms and left the lab with Mikhail. They didn’t had the time to collect more info on Strzygomir. They left the lab as it is.

As they were through the tunnel passage to reach the surface they heard a loud noise from behind. The monster was behind their trail now chasing them. When Boris saw that he handed Alena to Mikhail and went to stop it.

Boris : “Can you hold her for a bit ?… I will stop him till you leave.”

Mikhail : “I will trust in you. But return soon before we seal the passage otherwise it will come outside.”

Boris : “Thanks Mikhail, see you soon at above.”

He used his flame power create a trail of flame behind his every footsteps. He ran like a burning vehicle and charged straight on the beast. With just one jab the monster was pushed back to a corner. But this created a problem. The beast got hit so hard he loosed his balance and broke the walls of the tunnel passage. This led to the increase of the water coming inside.

Boris : “What the hell ? Why this mad man built the lab underwater ?… Now I don’t have much time to deal with you lot.”

Interior – Strzygomir’s Lab, Deep Underground

They stormed through dimly lit corridors, each room filled with wreckage—shattered vials, broken restraints, and flickering mana tubes. The thick scent of old blood, chemicals, and burned metal hung in the air.

Time was running out.

Boris Rykov’s fists remained clenched, eyes burning with fury. Each empty room fed his rising panic.

Boris (growling):
“Where is she!? Damn this place—how many cells did that monster build!?”

But at the far end of the corridor, a calm but sharp voice cut through the chaos.

Mikhail (shouting):
“Rykov… I’ve got her! This way—now!”

Without a second of hesitation, Boris dashed down the hall. His boots left trails of ember with every step, sparks dancing in his wake.

When he entered the room, his breath caught.

There, strapped to a metallic bed surrounded by empty mana coils and dripping tubes, lay Alena—frail, pale, and barely conscious. Her Zhivava flickered faintly in the air around her like a fading aurora.

For a heartbeat, the warrior inside Boris gave way to the godfather. His chest tightened. His fists trembled.

Boris (voice breaking):
“Alenushka…”

Rage. Guilt. Helplessness. All of it surged like an inferno through his veins.

Mikhail (stepping forward, steady):
“I know how it feels, Boris. But we have to move—now. That monster left us a parting gift. This place could collapse any minute.”

Boris swallowed his grief, his flames dimming just enough to not harm her. He gently gathered Alena in his arms—so light, so cold.

Boris (quietly):
“I’ve got you now, little one. I swear I won’t let anything else happen to you.”

Together, the two men ran through the dark passage, their shadows long and fast behind them.

The Tunnel Passage – Mid-Escape

The walls rumbled. A deep, guttural screech echoed through the stone as pipes burst and magic flickered. The whole structure groaned under strain.

Then—BOOM!
A blast echoed behind them.

The creature was awake.

A grotesque abomination formed from chimeric remains and alchemical magic—a failed experiment left behind by Strzygomir to clean up his mess.

Mikhail (eyes wide, turning):
“It’s following! Dammit, it’s fast—too fast!”

Boris skidded to a halt, handing Alena carefully into Mikhail’s arms.

Boris:
“Can you hold her for a bit? I’ll buy you time.”

Mikhail (nodding without hesitation):
“Go. But return before we seal this place—if it escapes, the city’s doomed.”

Boris (smirking faintly):
“Seal it the moment you’re clear. If I don’t come out… burn it all.”

With a fiery breath, Boris blazed down the tunnel. Every step ignited a trail of flame, lighting up the darkness like a meteor streaking through night.

He collided with the beast mid-charge—one flaming jab, and the monster was thrown backwards, slamming into the wall like a meteor.

But the blow came at a cost.

The impact cracked the surrounding structure—runes faltered, and a massive fissure split the wall, letting in a rushing torrent of water from the river above.

Boris (gritting his teeth, staring at the flood):
“You lunatic… you built your lab under a damned river?”

The water surged in like a beast of its own, and the monster rose again, roaring, drenched but unbroken.

Boris (cracking his neck):
“Fine. Let’s dance, freak. One last round before I torch this tomb.”

As the water rushed in with force, Boris’s flames clashed against it, vaporizing both the flood and the monster’s grotesque flesh. He fought like a machine—relentless, ferocious. His gauntlets blazed with searing heat as he delivered heavy punch after punch, never letting up. Each strike cracked the air, each blow aimed to end it fast.

But the monster endured it all.

Then, for the first time, it reacted.

Its grotesque body began to shimmer—and then, horrifyingly, it ignited with a flame of its own. Flames that matched Boris’s intensity.

Boris’s eyes narrowed in shock.
Boris: “So… your magic copies others’ powers? Let’s see how well you handle mine.”

He lunged again, fists burning, but this time the creature twisted its body mid-swing and dodged—its movements faster, more fluid. A second later, it retaliated with a flurry of strikes from its many limbs. Like a whirlwind of claws and strength, it lashed out.

Boris weaved through the barrage, his gauntlets clashing against limb after limb. Sparks and steam flew in the narrow passage, his iron fists barely keeping pace. At first, he matched every blow, but the creature’s speed kept increasing—a living adaptation engine.

The rising water sloshed against his legs, now reaching his knees.

He gritted his teeth. His arms burned—not from his fire, but from fatigue. Every blocked strike numbed his fingers more. His knuckles ached, his elbows trembled. His once-mighty defense was faltering, piece by piece.

And then—
—he missed one.

The monster’s fist smashed into his jaw, sending him staggering sideways, the tunnel shaking from the impact.

Boris staggered but did not fall. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, his muscles screamed, and yet—he stood.
He had to end this abomination.
For Alenushka.
For Andry.
For his sister.
For his people.

With a roar, he charged into the flooded tunnel, shoulder-first, punching through the wall of limbs that surged toward him. Each blow ignited steam as his flaming gauntlets evaporated the water and scorched the regenerating flesh. But the monster adapted, reading his strikes, countering with terrifying precision.

Boris was barely keeping up. It wasn’t just powerful—it was learning.

Meanwhile, Mikhail ran through the collapsing passage, cradling the unconscious Alena in his arms. Traps burst from the walls and floor, but he twisted and ducked past each one, his focus absolute.

He had made a promise—a man’s promise.
To a partner.
A friend.
A rival he had once resented but had come to respect.

Boris, you fool, he thought, eyes narrowing at the growing light ahead. Don’t die on me.

Back in the tunnel, Boris felt his instincts flare—too late.
A flurry of limbs struck him dead-on. He crossed his arms just in time, his gauntlets absorbing the brunt, but the force crushed his ribs. Pain exploded through his chest. He staggered back, spitting blood. Breathing became harder. Internal bleeding had begun.

Not yet…

He lifted his fists, swaying slightly, vision swimming. Then—

His eyes locked on something.

A glimpse beneath the shredded rags of the creature's torso. Faint but unmistakable—a mark etched along the left ribcage, now glowing softly through blood and rot:

‘ⰓⰂ–ⰐⰂⰃ–ⰓⰃⰃⰂ–ⰍⰒⰕ’

The Glagolitic code.
Rosgvard. Novgorod. Red Group 2. Captain.

Boris froze, heart twisting.
No… not a monster. A man. One of us.

He clenched his fists tighter. This wasn’t just a fight anymore. It was mercy. It was duty.

“Forgive me,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Comrade.”

The battle between the Guard Commander and the monstrous figure who once bore the title of Captain raged through the submerged tunnel, sending tremors along its stone ribs. Water had risen nearly to their necks, yet they fought on — underwater, relentless.

Boris Rykov's heart ached with a sorrow deeper than the flooding currents. He had finally recognized the grotesque creature: a Rosgvard Captain — one of their own — long reported missing. A loyal comrade, now reduced to a twisted experiment by the vile hands of the Black Physician.

Boris clenched his jaw, fury and grief warring within him. He had failed to find the Captain in time. He had failed to save him. But he would not fail to grant him peace.

His crimson eyes ignited like twin torches in the dark, Zhivava coursing through his veins like wildfire. Flames burst through the seams of his armor, spreading across his gauntlets in glowing arcs of burning will. Each strike now came not with rage, but with conviction — devastating, precise, unforgiving.

He gave the creature no room to retaliate.

Boris (softly, like a prayer):
"Comrade… thank you for your service. For Novgorod… for your home… please, find rest in the waters of the Volkhov. May it carry your soul to peace, my friend."

He pulled back his right fist, drawing in all the Zhivava he had left, concentrating it into a single, final blow.

“NOVGOROD’S EMBER FIST!!”

The strike landed — a thunderous explosion of flame and force that shattered the creature’s chest, sending a radiant shockwave through the passage. The heated energy evaporated much of the surrounding floodwater in a roaring hiss of steam.

For a fleeting moment, as the ashes began to fall, the monster’s face twisted — not in agony, but into a faint, familiar smile. A silent gratitude. A soldier freed.

Then silence.

The waters began to drain away. Boris, bleeding and broken, forced his body forward. The pain blurred his vision, but it was nothing compared to the fire in his heart.

Alenushka. Andry.
He couldn’t let them suffer.

He ran.

At the tunnel’s exit—where light met the shadows—Lev and his assembled team stood waiting. Mikhail had just emerged with Alena cradled carefully in his arms. But as they stepped out, a thunderous boom roared from within, followed by a wave of raw Zhivava energy erupting through the entrance. It crackled through the air like a living flame.

Everyone froze.

Lev’s face tensed. “That came from inside…”

Without hesitation, he turned and called out, “Healers! Now! All medics, to the front! We may have wounded!”

His voice echoed over the organized chaos of soldiers from different Novgorod branches now falling into position. Alena stirred weakly in his arms, barely conscious.

Lev looked to Mikhail. “Chief… You should heal first. We’ll secure the area and wait for the Commander.”

But Mikhail shook his head. His coat was torn, his breathing uneven, but his eyes remained sharp.

“No. I’ll wait here. Take Alena to safety.”

Lev’s eyes widened. “But, sir… you’re injured—”

“Lieutenant Lev,” Mikhail interrupted firmly. “That’s an order. Care for her… until we both return.”

There was finality in his tone. Lev saluted reluctantly and carried Alena away.

Mikhail turned back toward the tunnel, gaze locked on the dark entrance. His hands balled into fists. He had made up his mind. If Boris hadn’t returned yet, then he would go in and bring him back himself.

He took a step forward—but suddenly stopped.

From the shadows, a glow appeared. Faint at first—a flicker of firelight dancing in the tunnel’s mist. It grew stronger, until the silhouette of a warrior came into view.

It was Boris.

Running.

Charging forward like a man possessed, with cracked armor, scorched gauntlets, and blood trailing in his wake. Behind him surged a tidal wave of water rushing through the tunnel, barely inches from his heels. But the commander outran it, burst forth like a bullet of flame from the storm’s mouth.

Mikhail’s breath caught. Boris was alive—but something in his eyes had changed.

He had won.

But he was not victorious.

The flames that had surrounded Boris moments ago were gone—but the weight of a soul just freed clung to him. The final memories of the monster he had defeated—the former Rosgvard captain—still echoed in his mind. He saw them. Felt them.

A proud soldier… once a beloved mentor, captured during the outbreak.

Tortured.

Turned into an abomination by the Black Physician. A tool. A test subject.

Boris had recognized him too late.

And now those memories—flooded with pain, pride, and sacrifice—were etched into his own heart. They burned worse than any wound.

He was coughing hard. Blood dripped from his lips. But his eyes—his eyes were ablaze with something stronger than pain.

Resolve.

He gritted his teeth and whispered, not to anyone… but to himself:

“Never again. Not to my men… Not to my blood… Not to Alenushka. Not to Andry.”

Mikhail could see Boris charging through the rising flood behind him—the churning water now rushing like a beast through the tunnel. His eyes widened, but he quickly grasped the situation: the laboratory had been built beneath the riverbed, and with its destruction, the Volkhov itself had begun pouring in.

Mikhail: “Everyone, get to the surface! The tunnel’s flooding—the whole sewer’s about to drown. Move!”

The others didn’t hesitate. Soldiers scrambled toward the exit, their boots slamming against the wet floor. But Mikhail stayed behind, eyes fixed on the passageway. He waited.

From the shadows of the collapsing tunnel, Boris emerged—battered, drenched, but still alive. His armor was torn, his face pale, and his breathing ragged. Yet with everything he had left, he threw himself forward, leaping out of the mouth of the passage just as another torrent of water slammed into the corridor behind him.

He collapsed, sprawled out on the ground, unable to move.

Mikhail: “Hey… hey, this isn’t nap time, you hear me? We’re not done yet. Come on.”

He crouched beside his friend, then froze. His eyes caught the faint purple hue seeping around Boris’s wounds—the telltale sign of poison.

Mikhail: “Damn it… you’ve been poisoned?!”

Without wasting a second, Mikhail hoisted Boris over his shoulder and hurried toward the ladder leading up. The rumble of the flood behind them grew louder, more violent, but they made it. As Mikhail emerged from the manhole onto the surface, the sewers below were already drowning in the black river water.

Boris was still breathing—but barely. His ribs were shattered, his limbs limp, and the poisoned wounds on his torso pulsed faintly.

Mikhail: “Get him to the infirmary—immediately. (glancing at the medics, then smirking slightly) And put his bed near the girl’s… trust me, he’ll appreciate it.”

He turned to his second-in-command.

Mikhail: “Until further notice, this place is off-limits. Seal the entrance, Lieutenant.”

Lev: “Yes, Chief. But you need treatment too.”

He glanced at Mikhail’s blood-soaked sleeve.

Lev: “We’ll take care of this zone. Please take rest—you’ve both done enough for one day.”

Scene 7 : Statue

In the Infirmary

Alexander sipped his favorite alcohol, reclining in a worn armchair with a quiet satisfaction. He relished the subtle chaos creeping through the city—the unrest like a slow-burning fuse. In his glass, bubbles rose lazily, mirroring the rising tension and anger swelling among the citizens.

Standing silently nearby was a medical assistant, assigned to monitor his health. The room was quiet. Just the two of them.

Alexander (calmly): “Drop the act. I've sealed this room with a soundproofing spell. Now speak—what’s the status after your lab was destroyed?”

The assistant let out a low, eerie chuckle. With a flick of his finger, his form shimmered and shifted. The disguise fell, revealing the twisted grin of the Black Physician.

Strzygomir (laughing with manic glee): “How do you always see through my disguises?... No matter. I’ve got something to report. You’ve probably already heard about the tremors near the statue, haven’t you?”

Alexander: “Yes, I’ve felt them. But you didn’t brief me earlier. Why?”

Strzygomir: “Because the lab was raided. Your favorite tag team—Rykov and Zolotnikov—came knocking. They stormed in and took the girl.”

Alexander (furious): “What?! How could you lose her?! She was the key! I need her to reach Alkonost!”

Strzygomir (grinning): “Relax. We don’t need her anymore.”

He reached into his coat and produced a sealed mechanical box. A soft pulse of light flickered from within—it radiated a strange, living warmth. Alexander took the box carefully, his anger melting into awe. He cradled it like a priceless relic, eyes wide with curiosity. The sensation was unmistakable.

Alexander (in awe): “This… This is her Zhivava... It’s still alive?”

Strzygomir (eyes gleaming with madness): “Awakened and preserved. But that’s not all. I’ve made something else—a tracker. Zhivava-based, built by none other than yours truly. We can find the guardian now.”

Alexander (excited): “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s strike while the iron is hot.”

Strzygomir (grinning): “I was about to say the same. I’ve been dying to meet the divine guardian myself.”

Alexander stood, pulling on his black overcoat with practiced ease. Without another word, he strode toward the door, Strzygomir resuming his medic assistant disguise. As they stepped into the corridor, the storm outside rumbled faintly.

The board was set. And all the pieces were finally in play.

INT. ROSGVARD MEDICAL QUARTERS – NIGHT

The sterile glow of medical lights hums above. Alena and Boris lie in adjacent beds, bandaged and unconscious. Mikhail, propped up with a shoulder brace and oxygen support, is being treated by medics nearby.

The door bursts open. ANDRY rushes in, panic on his face.

ANDRY (worried, breathless)
Uncle! Alena! What happened to them?! I should’ve gone with you... I should’ve—

MIKHAIL (strained but calm)
Andry… they’ll be alright. They’re in safe hands now. You staying here is more important than you realize.

ANDRY (softly)
I’ll stay. I promise.

MIKHAIL (nodding)
Good. We may have to face the real mastermind... without them.

A moment of silence hangs, heavy with implication. Just then, LEV SIDOROV, Mikhail’s lieutenant, enters, pale and tense.

LEV (grim)
Chief… we swept the entire sewer network. No sign of survivors. No bodies either. Strzygomir erased everything.

MIKHAIL (frowning)
You mean—?

LEV
The lab's been flooded, sir. Most evidence is destroyed or swept into the river. He planned this.

MIKHAIL (coldly)
Then he’s still in the city. Like a rat behind the walls. And he’s not done yet.

He winces slightly from pain, but his eyes sharpen.

MIKHAIL (firm)
Place every checkpoint on alert. No movement without clearance. Keep watch for Gabriel’s personal troops, but don’t engage unless provoked. I believe he is also somehow involved in all of this.

LEV
Understood, sir. I’ll coordinate with internal security and send updates directly to your quarters.

MIKHAIL (smiling faintly)
Good man. Now go. I’ll be back on my feet before this bastard makes his next move.

Lev salutes and rushes out. The camera pans over to Andry, who looks between Alena and Boris, his fists clenched but eyes determined. Outside, distant thunder rumbles—a storm is indeed approaching.

A ghostly silence hung over the square, broken only by the mechanical whir of a box-like device. Midnight had cast its veil, and the heart of the city — once reverent — now beat hollow. Not a single patrol stirred near the statue of Alkonost, the once-sacred Guardian of Destiny. Forgotten. Defiled by time.

Two figures approached, faces veiled beneath hoods, moving like wraiths through the moonlit square. They halted before the statue, its wings outstretched, weathered by centuries and indifference.

One of them cradled a strange device — a compact machine, humming softly, with a glowing ring at its center that pulsed like a heartbeat.

Strzygomir:
"This is the place. I'm certain the entrance is near the statue."

Alexander (impatiently):
"That gadget of yours better be right. I’m done waiting. Just a few more steps, and the Divine Guardian’s power will be mine. All this time it was beneath my very nose... Find the entrance. Now."

Strzygomir (offended):
"‘Gadget’? Hah! This—this is the Rod Engine: Model ZRR-01. A triumph of ingenuity. You’ll see what it can really do… soon enough."

Alexander narrowed his eyes as the mad scientist circled the statue, waving the device, scanning the earth, the cracks, the shadows. Yet the readings were erratic — distorted. The statue was somehow interfering with the signal.

Strzygomir (clicking his tongue):
"Of course... The man who built these statues across the Seven City-States was no fool. He anticipated someone would come seeking the hidden doors. So, he forged the statues from a rare alloy that dampens the Zhivava in Romanov blood. It suppresses their awakening."

He tapped the Rod Engine, grinning madly.

"But he never imagined me — someone brilliant enough to outwit dead architects and divine suppressors. And thanks to the awakened girl’s Zhivava, we triangulated it."

Alexander (stepping forward):
"Then where is it?"

Strzygomir (eyes gleaming):
"Directly beneath the statue."

Alexander (sarcastic, almost furious):
"Have you gone fully insane? That monument has stood for centuries! It survived the Tartar Invasion and more. How do you expect to move it?!"

Strzygomir (grinning wider):
"That’s why I said—remove your cloak."

Understanding dawned in Alexander’s eyes. Without a word, he unfastened his cloak and overcoat, revealing the obsidian marvel beneath.

It was the Sovereign Regalia Suit — a twisted union of ancient Zhivava-forged armor and experimental Red Winter biotech. The exosuit shimmered under the moonlight: an obsidian-black exoskeleton etched with ancient Slavic glyphs, veins of dormant Rod energy coursing beneath its surface.

Strzygomir reached into the box and retrieved the glowing circular ring. Reverently, he inserted it into the empty core on Alexander’s chest. The moment it connected, the entire suit lit up.

Power surged. Glyphs blazed. The air trembled.

Alexander donned a helmet — skull-like, with slitted eyes that radiated a crimson divine glare. His voice, when he next spoke, reverberated like thunder distorted through a cathedral:

Alexander (transfigured):
"At last… a power fit for soon to be a member of the Disciple of Fate Reverser."

Clawed gauntlets formed around his hands. Shockwave cannons slid into place along his arms. Levitating boots activated with a hiss, lifting him slightly above ground. The awakened Rod energy traced molten veins along his spine.

Draped in a torn mantle bearing a sigil — a bleeding eye encasing a split sun, pierced by an inverted cross-shaped sword — he looked less like a man and more like a usurper god, born of blood, circuitry, and ambition.

A twisted messiah beneath the broken gaze of Alkonost.

Strzygomir (bowing to his god in which he believes):
"All hail the False God of Fate, the Fate Reverser.”

“Now you too have become a member of the Disciple of the Fate Reverser. To become a Disciple like me you need at least the power equal or near to me."

Alexander: “I know. I want to meet the leader of your little cabal—the so-called First Disciple. The one Red Winter brands as the number one criminal in our records. No name, no face. Just a myth… They call him The False Red Sage.”

Strzygomir chuckled, a raspy, metallic sound echoing off the stone walls. “I’m pleased you’ve done your research. Few even dare to whisper his title. Only the Disciples—like myself—have stood in his presence, yet even we have never seen his face. He is shadow wrapped in shadow. You’re fortunate, Alexander. I’m offering you a place among us.”

Alexander narrowed his eyes, the red glow from his visor dimming. “Don’t toy with me, Strzygomir. You want the Guardians’ power just as much as I do. But your twisted little sect believes that kind of power belongs only in your hands. You came to me knowing my hunger. Let’s not pretend—this is a transaction. You gain, I gain.”

Strzygomir’s grin widened. “Hah… That hunger, that cunning—that’s why you’re fit to be the Fifth Disciple. A throne of iron awaits, if you have the spine to claim it. But enough talk. Let’s get to work.”

Alexander sighed, then rolled his shoulders as his crimson-plated suit hummed to life. “So I do the heavy lifting… as always.”

With a roar of hydraulics and surging muscle, he grasped the ancient stone statue towering before them. The air trembled as he heaved it aside, slamming it down against the chamber wall. Dust erupted. Beneath the ruin, a sealed marble door glistened with runes etched in forgotten script—waiting.

Alexander stepped forward. His suit entered energy-saving mode, plates folding slightly inward as it siphoned ambient mana to recharge.

He knelt before the door, placed one gloved hand on the cold marble, and read aloud the invocation inscribed in fading gold:

“Open not the gate to dream unless you wish to be undone by truth.”

The air stilled. A tremor ran through the chamber. The seal began to glow faintly, then blazed with piercing white light.

And beneath their feet, the gate to the Realm of Alkonost stirred for the first time in a thousand years.

Scene 8 : Stersly

The air inside Rosgvard’s HQ was heavy with tension. Officers moved briskly through the corridors, their boots echoing against the cold floor, their voices hushed but urgent. The city was on edge—and so was everyone inside the command center.

In the dimly lit infirmary wing, Andry sat quietly beside Alena’s bed. Her face was pale, peaceful in unconsciousness, as if untouched by the battle she had endured. Across from her, Boris lay propped against the pillows of his own hospital bed—conscious now, but still wrapped in bandages and pain. Despite the wounds, his eyes remained sharp, though dimmed with worry.

Both his goddaughter and nephew were now safe—but that didn’t still the unease gnawing in his chest.

When Boris had first regained consciousness, it was Andry and Mikhail who had greeted him—standing watch by his side. They had told him everything. How they’d felt a surge of Zhivava ripple through the city like a pulse of destiny. How officers had arrived to find a toppled statue, shattered at the base. And beneath it, buried in stone and secrecy, a mystical marble door, humming with ancient power.

Andry had sensed a connection to it—a calling. So, Mikhail made the call to enter, choosing Andry and Lev to accompany him. He decided that less but powerful people will be better for this mission.

But Boris wasn’t at ease. He wanted to be out there, standing beside them. Healing fast, pushing through the pain. Yet Mikhail had entrusted him with something equally important: to guard Alena… and the city.

Still, his thoughts were pulled toward Andry—his brave, reckless, determined nephew.

Andry (gentle reassurance):
“Don’t worry, Uncle. I’ll take care of myself.”

Boris (his voice laced with worry):
“I know… but still. I don’t want you to go.”
He turned to face Andry more fully, his gaze intense.
“Chasing Strzygomir is no ordinary mission. Even Mikhail and I barely escaped alive. And…”
His voice broke slightly, the crack revealing years of buried grief.
“I just found you again… after all these years. My old heart can’t take the blow of losing you too. Your mother—she’s still waiting, you know.”

Andry hesitated. His heart was torn. He wanted to stay—wanted to protect Alena, to ease his uncle’s fears. But deeper inside burned something fiercer: his duty, not just as a soldier, not just as a member of Stersly, but as someone who had been called. He couldn’t forget what Strzygomir had done to Alena. And Mikhail had chosen him for a reason.

The words of his master echoed in his mind—his other uncle, the one who had trained him.

“Fight not just to win. Fight to protect.”

He clenched his fists.

Boris watched him silently, unsure how to pull him back. He turned his head toward Alena and gently touched her forehead, brushing away a strand of hair. She didn’t stir.

But then—her hand moved. Unconsciously, she reached out and wrapped her fingers around Boris’s like a child clinging to warmth in the cold.

Time seemed to still.

Boris’s breath caught. He looked from her hand to Andry, a new understanding blooming in his expression.
Alena still believed in him. Even in sleep. Maybe that was the answer he needed.

Boris (softly, eyes misting):
“Seems like she still believes in you… even now. So go.”
He smiled faintly, the pain melting into pride.
“Just come back alive. I believe in you, my fellow soldier. And don’t you dare die before your old uncle.”

Andry (his voice catching, tears shimmering in his eyes):
“Yes… I will.”

He rose from the chair, casting one last look at the two people who had anchored his life since returning. Then he turned and walked out of the infirmary, boots silent against the floor.

There was no more hesitation in his step.

Resolve now coursed through him like a blade drawn from its sheath. The mission ahead was dark, unknown—but his path was clear. He would face it.

For Alena.
For Boris.
For everything he had chosen to protect.

Alexander’s eyes widened as the blinding radiance faded. Strzygomir stirred beside him, shaking off the disorientation. Before them stretched a world unlike anything they had known.

They stood upon a vast, walkable expanse that shimmered like a living mirror, reflecting a sky heavy with wonder. Above, countless floating pools hung suspended in the air, each brimming with crystalline water that spilled in endless cascades. The rain that fell was cool, sweet, and strangely luminous, leaving ripples of light where it struck the ground.

Silver-barked trees rose around them, their glass-like leaves chiming in delicate harmony whenever the wind passed. The air was thick with drifting clouds shaped like colossal feathers, each one shimmering with twilight hues—violet, gold, and deep indigo. As they moved through them, the clouds whispered visions: flashes of past lives, glimpses of possible futures, and truths the heart might wish to avoid.

In the far distance rose a spiraling staircase of translucent light, ascending through the mist toward a half-ruined citadel that floated high above. Its broken towers bled streams of radiance into the sky, and from its presence came the undeniable pulse of a Guardian.

Alexander tilted his head toward it.
Alexander: “Those stairs… I think that’s where we’re headed.”
Strzygomir: “Yes. But tread carefully—this is the Guardian’s realm. It already knows we are here.”
Alexander: “Then let’s not keep it waiting.”

They began their march toward the staircase, passing through a realm alive with strange and beautiful creatures, each radiating the essence of Alkonost’s power. But neither man came for wonder—they were ready to cut down anything that stood between them and the Guardian’s heart.

Meanwhile, in Novgorod’s city center

The air was thick with tension. Officers of both the Stersly and the Rosgvard stood in disciplined ranks, awaiting orders. At the center of it all, the shattered remains of the Guardian’s statue lay scattered across the plaza. Once it had towered proudly over Novgorod, a silent sentinel. Now it lay in ruin, its dignity stolen.

Andry knelt by one of the broken pieces, bowing his head in silent prayer—just as he had always done at the statue of Simargl in his home city of Pskov. He felt an ache in his chest, not only for the Guardian’s image but for what it meant to the people and soldiers who had once sworn silent oaths before it.

Nearby, Lev stood speaking to the assembled officers, briefing them on the mission’s objectives and potential threats. His tone was calm but sharp, cutting through the heavy air. He spared a glance at Andry, understanding the weight on his friend’s shoulders but knowing there was no time to dwell on grief.

Mikhail stepped forward, his voice hard but steady.
Mikhail: “I know what each of you is feeling. Our pride has been struck down. Our enemy has not only attacked this city—he has insulted its very soul. And he will pay. But hear me: this foe is not to be underestimated. He is Strzygomir, the Black Physician, ranked third on Red Winter’s most wanted list. Even the Guard Commander and I barely escaped him alive.”

His eyes swept over the gathered soldiers, and his voice grew sharper.
Mikhail: “But if he crosses my path again… I will tear him apart. And I trust my soldiers to finish what I start.”

Soldiers (in unison): “Long live Novgorod!”
Mikhail: “May the Sacred Guardian Alkonost watch over this city and its people.”

Orders were given—some to stand guard, others to patrol, and a select few to prepare for the pursuit. Lev took charge of finalizing the deployment lists while Mikhail signaled him and Andry to join him.

The three men donned their Stersly uniforms—sleek, form-fitting combat attire designed for both agility and defense. The deep charcoal fabric was etched with muted crimson lines along the seams, a symbol of vigilance and sacrifice. Reinforced plates guarded chest, shoulders, and forearms, while the high-collared coat bore the silver insignia of the Stersly—a stylized wing and blade—over the heart. Utility belts and magnetic holsters kept their weapons close, the armor treated to resist both physical strikes and Zhivava-based assaults.

Approaching the mystical marble door, Andry placed a hand against its cold surface. The moment his palm met the stone, the ancient markings blazed to life. Lines of light raced across its surface, and the door flared with a brilliance so fierce it forced them to shield their eyes.

Then, with a pull as sudden as a riptide, they were drawn inside—Mikhail, Lev, and Andry vanishing into the blinding light, marking the beginning of their journey into the realm of Alkonost.

Boris lay on his bed, his own injuries still aching, his gaze fixed on the unconscious Alena in the cot beside him. Her face was pale but peaceful, and the sight pulled him back to a warmer time—when she was only two years old, clinging to his fingers like a mischievous little monkey. She’d been a lively, cheeky child with a laugh that could light a room.

She adored Ukha—that clear, rich fish soup made from fresh river catch—pike, perch, or sturgeon. On visits to his sister, he’d sit with her at the kitchen table, painting her family as she requested, only for her to “help” by smearing colors everywhere—on the canvas, on her cheeks, in her hair. They’d all laugh until their sides hurt.

But after her parents’ deaths, everything changed. He had been bound by their final request: stay away from her to protect her. From the shadows, he had kept his promise—watching, guarding—but in the process, he had lost a trusted comrade, and Alena had suffered years of loneliness. In his heart, the guilt festered.

A slight tug on his finger broke his thoughts. He looked down—Alena’s small hand was gripping his own. Her face twisted in pain, her body trembling.

Boris sat up sharply.
Boris (alarmed): “Medic! Now!”

Two uniformed medics rushed in.

Junior Medic (checking her pulse): “Zhivava levels are spiking—fast!”
Boris: “What’s happening to her?!”
Senior Medic: “She’s on the verge of awakening. If we don’t stabilize her magic, the surge will tear through her body.”
Boris: “She’s… going to awaken as a Volkhvari?”
Senior Medic: “Yes—an Otrazhenni. Rare. Extremely rare.”
Boris: “But she hasn’t touched any artifact—there’s been no mystical trigger.”
Senior Medic: “Not directly. My guess is the Zhivava wave that erupted from the shattered Guardian statue—she must have been vulnerable when it struck.”

Boris swallowed hard. “Then this is… the first Otrazhenni awakening I’ve ever seen with my own eyes. Please—she’s my goddaughter. Help her.”

Senior Medic: “That’s why Chief Mikhail stationed me here.”

Alena’s struggles worsened—her breathing ragged, body thrashing. The junior medic pinned her shoulders while the senior pressed both hands above her heart, channeling a steady stream of Zhivava to balance the wild current inside her.

Boris took her hand, pressing his forehead to it.
Boris (whispering): “Sacred Guardian Alkonost… keep her safe…”

Slowly, her shaking eased—but the pain never left her face. Then, without warning, her eyes flew open—glowing pale blue. Her body lifted from the bed, a shimmering aura wrapping around her. A pulse of raw Zhivava exploded outward, hurling all three of them into the walls, splintering the plaster.

When the dust cleared, she lay back in the bed, breathing calmly. Her eyes—still luminous—met his. The room was utterly still.

Alena (soft, hesitant): “I… heard your voice in my dreams. Are you… really my godfather?”

Boris crossed the space in three strides, pulling her into his arms. She clung to him, trembling, tears soaking his shirt. It had been years since anyone had embraced her with such warmth—and in that moment, she knew.

Alena (crying): “Why didn’t you come for me? I was all alone…”
Boris (voice breaking): “I was bound by my promise to your parents. I thought it would keep you safe. I was wrong… so wrong. My Alenushka, forgive me.”

She sniffled, trying to smile through her tears.
Alena: “If you really want to make it up to me… make me your Ukha. The one you made when I was small. I’m starving—two servings.”
Boris (laughing through tears): “You’ll have as much as you want, my dear Alenushka. From now on, you’ll be with me. No one will harm you again.”

The two medics watched quietly, both blinking back their own tears.

Boris: “Thank you, Doctor. I can’t tell you what this means to me.”
Senior Medic: “It’s her strength that pulled her through. But remember—both of you are still recovering. Rest. And if anything changes… call the Pirogov Medical Corps immediately.”

The medics slipped out, leaving godfather and goddaughter alone—finally reunited after years of silent longing.