Ch 6 : Andry, Alkonost & Novgorod ( Part - 4 )

Scene 9 : The Guardian's Realm

The mood of Pskov was grim. The destruction of the City Hall and the Sacred Guardian’s statue had ignited a firestorm of rumors, each more twisted than the last. Hatred for the people of Novgorod spread like smoke through dry grass. Some citizens begged for peace; others whispered of burning Pskov to ash. The older generation still remembered their bitter defeats at Poskovian hands—memories that never truly healed. Red Winter’s rise had ended the wars, but not the resentments. Alexander merely fanned the embers, and somewhere in the dark, someone else was stoking the flames.

On an empty street, a shadow rippled and solidified into a man-shaped void. The world seemed to have forgotten him until he chose to be seen. Bezlik, the Faceless, phantom agent of General Kikimora, stood in the silence of the curfew-bound city. Patrol boots clicked faintly in the distance.

Bezlik: “I have reached the destination. Awaiting orders.”
Kikimora: “So, Alexander has made his move. I didn’t think he’d be so reckless. He could be… useful later. For now, stay in Novgorod. Help him seize the Regalia—but unseen. I have other pawns moving into place as he requested.”

Her voice lowered, sly.
“We must strike before the First Secretary wakes from his meditative slumber. Seventy-six years… and this is his last. The board is set.”

Bezlik: “Understood. I will act accordingly.”
Kikimora: “Dismissed.”

The Faceless one vanished, leaving not even a breath of wind in his wake.

In another part of the city, a telephone rang. The man on the other end answered with a low, guarded tone.

Kikimora: “Mr. Yaroslav Vladimirovich… Guard Commander of Pskov. The time has come. Fulfill your end of the bargain.”

Yaroslav: “I know. I’ll do it—but you’ll help me vanish before the invasion begins. I tried to turn Domna, but she refused. And I kept your name out of it.”

Kikimora: “Ah… Domna Tereshkova. Chief of Stersly, Pskov Branch.”

Yaroslav: “Yes. She’s shrewd. Even without proof, she’s probably digging already.”

Kikimora: “Then she must die. Create the opportunity and strike. The moment she’s dead, signal me—the invasion begins. Her death will be the start of the war.”

Yaroslav: “And the Commandant? Gavriil Vsevolodovich will never allow Pskov to fall.”

Kikimora: “I’ll keep him tangled in the capital. When he returns, it will already be over.”

Yaroslav: “I’ll still need help to take her down.”

Kikimora: “You’ll have it when the time comes. Just be ready to finish the job.”

Yaroslav: “As long as I walk away alive, we have a deal.”

Kikimora: “Of course… you’ll get what you deserve, Commander.”

The line went dead, leaving Yaroslav staring at the receiver—unsure if the last words were a promise… or a warning.

The pieces were moving. Soon, two cities would be caught in a storm of steel and fire, and history under Red Winter would take a bloodstained turn.

Parallel Cut – Pskov, Stersly Branch Headquarters

The heavy rain drummed against the tall windows of the Stersly’s Pskov branch office. Inside, Domna sat behind her mahogany desk, her gloved fingers tracing idle circles over a sealed report she had been avoiding for hours.

The oil lamp cast a long shadow across her face, but it did little to hide the faint tension pulling at her jaw.

She exhaled slowly, staring at the untouched cup of tea on her desk.
Something was wrong.

For the past two days, an unshakable unease had gnawed at her, as if invisible threads were tightening somewhere far beyond her sight. Her subordinates worked quietly in the outer hall, oblivious to the storm she felt creeping closer.

Her gaze drifted to the small leather-bound file beside her — Andry’s assignment order. She had signed it herself, back when Mayor Timothy insisted that Novgorod needed “fresh, capable eyes” for a delicate matter.

Her gut had warned her then. She ignored it.

Now, with no message from him in over a day, her mind kept replaying the moment she had sealed his orders and sent him away. She told herself it was for the mission, for the good of the City-State. But under the iron mask of the Chief, the woman beneath was cursing herself.

Andry was like a little brother to her. She adored him a lot but remained strict on her during work hours. She couldn’t shake away the uneasiness in her heart.

A low rumble of thunder rolled over Pskov.
Domna’s gloved hand stilled. She didn’t know why, but she was certain — something was about to break.

Andry stirred first, his vision blurred, his body heavy as though he had been dragged through a storm. When his sight finally cleared, he realized he was no longer in the world he knew. Lev and Mikhail were rousing beside him, each of them shaken by the disorienting pull of the dimensional passage.

They exchanged hurried words, recalling the moment the portal had torn itself open after Andry touched the strange door. None of them could deny that the place they now stood in was unlike anything they had seen before—too vivid, too unreal, too divine.

Andry rubbed his temples.
Andry: “Where… where are we? My head feels like it’s splitting since we passed through that door.”

Lev: “If I had to guess… this must be the realm of the Sacred Guardian.”

Mikhail turned slowly, eyes wide at the impossible horizon.
Mikhail: “Beautiful… and dangerous. Stay alert. We don’t know what we’ll face here. Follow my lead and don’t stray.”

Lev (obediently): “Understood, sir.”

Andry: “But I can’t shake the feeling… the Black Physician is already here.”

Drawn toward the distant glow, they began their trek across the glimmering expanse. The staircase of light rose like a beacon in the far-off sky, leading to a fractured citadel adrift above the clouds.

The realm itself was dreamlike—a liminal threshold between reality and myth. The air pulsed with harmony, as if unseen voices sang in every shifting color and ripple of light. It was breathtaking and yet unnerving, a place where beauty and illusion twined together so tightly one could no longer tell which was true.

The mirrored ground beneath their feet reflected the endless heavens above. Silver-barked trees lined the horizon, their glass-like leaves chiming softly as a wind stirred. Overhead, crystalline pools floated in the air, spilling radiant water in unending cascades that fell as luminous rain. Feather-shaped clouds drifted by, glowing with hues of violet, gold, and indigo. As they passed through them, the clouds whispered—visions of forgotten pasts, uncertain futures, and truths the heart feared to face.

At the end of the spiraling staircase loomed the half-ruined citadel, its towers bleeding streams of radiance into the mist. From it, they felt the thrum of the Guardian’s presence.

But not all was serene.

Within the forest ahead lay a vast, slumbering beast. Its body was avian, chest rising and falling with each slow breath, the throat glowing faintly with inner light. Yet it had no head. The sight froze Andry where he stood, dread crawling down his spine.

The three exchanged uneasy glances and agreed in silence not to disturb it.

Lev (in a whisper): “That’s a Golosniki—an Echo Bearer. One of the Guardian’s minions. Its voice can break resolve, twist direction… even steal a man’s voice forever.”

Andry (swallowing hard): “We were lucky it’s asleep. Saints forbid it wakes before we’re through. But… how do you know so much about these things?”

Mikhail smirked faintly, though his eyes remained wary.
Mikhail: “Because Lev’s always buried himself in stories of the Guardians. That’s why I brought him. His knowledge will keep us alive—and he’s my most trusted second.”

Andry (brightening despite the fear): “My little brother Ruslan’s the same. Obsessed with myths and legends. You two would get along.”

Lev (softly, with a rare smile): “I’d like that.”

As they pressed on, Lev’s mind wandered. He had always been the quiet one, drawn more to books than to children his own age. His father, a hardened soldier, had trained him strictly but never crushed his curiosity. In time, Lev’s sharp mind made him a standout at the Krasnaya Akademiya—the training school that prepared youths to join one of three paths: the Rosgvard, elite guardians of state; the Stersly, the secret intelligence police; or the Red Army, the backbone of the military.

It was there he met the man he would follow without hesitation: Mikhail. While others saw in Lev only a brilliant recruit, Mikhail saw a kindred mind. Years later, when he rose to Chief of the Stersly, Mikhail requested Lev as his vice. Lev’s father had been furious at his choice to forsake the Red Army, but even he had to admit—his son had become exceptional in his chosen path.

The memory faded as a flicker of motion drew Lev’s attention skyward. Three tiny winged figures darted between the crystalline cascades—children of starlight, born from scattered feathers. Mischievous laughter echoed as they swooped low, their arrows of sparkling dust aimed not at the intruders, but at the slumbering Golosniki.

The beast stirred, its chest swelling, throat blazing with light. A low, terrible hum began to vibrate through the forest.

Lev (cursing): “Peryatniki… damn little tricksters! They’ve woken it!”

The Golosniki’s headless body lurched upright, sensing the presence of the three mortals.

Lev (shouting): “Everyone—RUN!”

The forest erupted in chaos. The three fled across the mirrored ground, the monstrous Echo Bearer crashing after them, each breath rumbling like thunder. Above, the Peryatniki shrieked with laughter, flitting like cruel children enjoying a deadly game.

As the trio sprinted through the silver-barked forest, Andry staggered mid-step, clutching his chest. A shockwave rippled through him—an invisible pulse, steady and commanding, surging from the direction of the half-ruined citadel above. It was not pain but a summons, as though the citadel itself was calling his name.

Above the canopy, a flock of tiny-winged spirits appeared, their bodies like shards of glass and scattered feathers, glowing faintly with starlight. They drifted in graceful arcs until the Peryatnikis spotted them. With a chorus of shrill laughter, the mischievous tricksters loosed crystalline arrows into the flock.

Andry (panting, running): “What are those spirits? They look different from the others.”
Lev (grimacing): “No… not the Zoryas. Damn these Peryatnikis! If they rouse them, we’re finished. Zoryas attack in swarms like storms—and they’re too fast to track.”
Mikhail: “Both of you, hold steady. Brace yourselves—I’ll handle this.”
Lev: “Andry, stick close. We’re almost out of the forest.”
Andry: “Yes, sir!”

Mikhail drew the Golden Revolver, his movements fluid, almost dreamlike. The barrel glimmered with runes as he fired into the flitting Zoryas. Sparks of shattered feathers burst with each hit, but their numbers only multiplied, reforming in swirls like a living storm.

Mikhail (gritting his teeth): “Too fast. They scatter before I can line them up. And in a swarm, they’re near impossible to put down. Andry—cover us. Smokescreen, now!”
Andry: “Roger that!”

Drawing a deep breath, Andry spread his palms wide. Ash poured forth like a rolling tide, cloaking the swarm in a thick, shifting mist. The Zoryas spiraled in confusion, their glowing trails fading within the fog. Slowly, Andry expanded the cloud into the forest itself until it was drenched in a dim, choking haze.

The Golosniki, lost in the smothering fog, faltered. Its glowing throat flickered as it staggered, unable to sense the intruders. At last, the headless beast gave up its hunt, lumbering back into the depths. Relief washed over Lev and Andry, though Mikhail’s sharp gaze stayed locked on the shadows. The Peryatnikis still lingered, darting overhead in fury, stomping their tiny feet on the air like sulking children whose game had been ruined.

Mikhail (snarling): “These little brats won’t quit… Lev, tell me you know a way to deal with them.”
Lev (thinking quickly): “They’re spirits with the minds of children. If we play along—earn their favor—they might guide us instead of harassing us.”
(turning to Andry) “But before that… are you certain? The citadel—is it truly our destination?”

Andry (eyes fixed upward, voice steady): “Yes. I can feel it in my chest. That’s where the Guardian waits. The citadel is its nest.”

Mikhail (nodding, holstering his revolver): “Then we waste no more time. Strzygomir is here already, I can feel it. He won’t be an easy opponent, not even for me. But with the Guardian’s aid…”
(pausing, firm) “We might stand a chance.”

Lev and Andry (together, resolute): “Yes, sir.”

Lev turned calmly toward the mischievous Peryatnikis swarming behind them and raised his revolver.

Andry (concerned): “Hey, are you actually going to shoot them? They look like… kids.”

Mikhail (smirking): “Relax. Watch carefully.”

Lev pulled the trigger. No bullet fired—only a ripple of sound, so subtle it seemed like silence. Andry blinked in confusion, wondering if the shot had misfired. Then he froze.

The Peryatnikis shrieked as though struck by some unseen terror. Their luminous little forms scattered, crying out like frightened children. Instead of attacking, they rushed toward the trio, circling them desperately as if seeking comfort.

Andry (stammering): “W-what just happened? What did you do, sir?”

Lev (voice steady, calm): “They are childlike spirits at heart. I let them hear what no child wishes to—horrible sounds that frighten even their playful minds. My Zhivava is Sound. As a Sborniki, I bend the echoes around me: I can create waves that rupture hearing, cloak silence, or break resolve. What you saw was only one of many tricks. The rest… are reserved for the Chief’s ears alone.”

Andry’s eyes widened in awe.

Andry (grinning): “That’s incredible! I thought Sborniki just drew elements from nature. But you—you’re turning sound itself into a weapon. And now they’re just… hanging around us. Honestly, they’re kind of cute.”

Lev only offered a faint smile. From his coat he drew out a long wooden Fujara flute, carved with runes along its shaft. He lifted it to his lips and played.

The melody was soft, flowing like a mountain stream. The frightened Peryatnikis quieted instantly, drifting down to sit near him. They swayed like children at a lullaby, wide-eyed and still.

Andry’s jaw nearly dropped.

Andry (in awe): “You can tame them… with music?”

Mikhail, arms crossed, watched with a quiet pride.

Mikhail (softly, to himself): “Some things never change. The same boy I met back in Krasnaya… still using his music to change the world.”

There was once a boy whose brilliance set him apart from all others. At the Krasnaya Akademiya, his achievements shone brighter than his peers, but instead of admiration, it bred jealousy and spite. He became a target of whispers, of quiet cruelty, until isolation became his only companion.

From childhood, he had known this loneliness. His father, a strict man, drilled him into strength and discipline, while his mother, gentle yet weary, wept to see her son resign himself to a life without friends. Though the boy excelled in every lesson—both of books and of arms—he found solace not in people but in the pages of legends and ballads.

One day, his mother placed a Fujara into his hands, hoping its music might draw others to him. Yet the boy only shook his head. “No song,” he thought, “can change what I am.” Still, he played. In the Akademiya’s quiet corners, where laughter of other cadets did not reach, his melodies rose, soft and mournful.

And then, one day, another boy came. Drawn by the sound, he listened, then praised him. The gifted boy ignored him, certain this stranger too would turn away. But the curious one returned—again, and again—refusing to leave him to his silence.

At last, the lonely boy spoke. “If you can earn my respect, I will teach you the Fujara… and follow you all my life.”

The challenge was set. What began as stubborn persistence became a rivalry that blazed through every classroom and every training ground. The curious boy surpassed him, not out of malice, but out of admiration. When asked why, his answer was simple: “Because I wanted to be your friend.”

For the first time, the lonely boy wept. And from that day, the two were no longer alone. They grew into brothers-in-arms, bound by respect, loyalty, and the music of a promise—until one became Chief of the Stersly, and the other, his Vice-Chief.

This was the tale of Mikhail and his steadfast comrade, Lev—a bond forged from loneliness, tested in rivalry, and sealed in trust. Their story became a quiet legend within the walls of the Akademiya, inspiring others to believe that loyalty could be stronger than fear, and friendship might outlast solitude. Together, they shaped not only their own destinies but also the future of the Stersly, making the Novgorod branch their home and fortress of unshakable resolve.

Lev set his Fujara down with a calm sigh, the final notes still echoing through the silver-barked forest like threads of light. The Peryatnikis burst into joyful laughter, their mischief replaced by childlike wonder. They whirled around him in glowing circles, their wings leaving trails of crystalline dust in the air. One perched playfully on his head, tugging at his hair as if crowning him its new parent, while two others clung to his shoulders, giggling with delight.

Andry’s eyes widened in disbelief. Only moments ago these tricksters had been terrorizing them, and now they fluttered about like affectionate children. “Unbelievable…” he muttered, his voice equal parts awe and relief.

Mikhail crossed his arms and smiled faintly, as though he had foreseen this outcome all along. That quiet trust between Chief and Vice-Chief said more than words ever could.

Lev (chuckled softly): “So, how was it, little ones? Did you enjoy this session?”

The Peryatnikis twirled in the air and danced around him in radiant spirals, their laughter chiming like bells. Their answer was obvious.

“Then how about this,” Lev continued, “help us reach that citadel in the sky, and I’ll play another song just for you.”

The child-spirits nodded eagerly, wings flickering like stars. Each chose a companion: the youngest zipped straight to Andry, circling him with innocent joy until it landed on his shoulder, refusing to leave. The mischievous one who had shot the Golosniki claimed Lev’s head again, clinging to him stubbornly. The eldest floated toward Mikhail, drawn by his steady aura—though whenever the Chief turned away, it mimicked his stance with uncanny precision, arms crossed and chin raised like a little parody.

Mikhail (gave a short nod): “Alright then. Let’s move. Stay sharp—our path won’t be so kind.”

Lev and Andry (together): “Yes, sir.”

And so the six of them set out together—the three men and their newfound companions—guided through the dreamlike wilderness. Their path wound through whispering forests and skies heavy with drifting clouds. Along the way, dangers emerged like trials of fate itself.

In the depths of the forest, packs of Svetovolki, wolves draped in glowing feathers, circled with haunting howls. The Peryatnikis darted ahead, distracting them long enough for the trio to fight through with blades and bullets. Further along, the group slithered past Rassvet Serpents, ribbon-like beasts shimmering with dawn light, whose illusions threatened to lead them astray. Together, they resisted the serpents’ hypnotic sway, keeping to the true path.

High above, perched among the crystalline pools, rested the Harpiy-Zoryanki, half-bird, half-woman singers of the dawn. Their voices could charm or shatter the mind, and so the travelers moved silently, careful not to stir them from their sleep.

Finally, from the radiant pools themselves descended the Vodnisty, spirits of liquid light. They tested the intruders, their bodies flowing like rivers in human form. For a moment it seemed they would strike—but the Peryatnikis fluttered forth, vouching for their new friends. Sensing the sincerity in the travelers’ hearts, the Vodnisty healed their wounds instead, washing away fatigue with cool waves of light.

Trial after trial, the unlikely party pressed on. With every challenge overcome, their bond grew stronger, until at last the ethereal stairway came into view—spiraling up into the heavens, toward the half-ruined citadel bleeding light into the skies.

Their true test was only beginning.

Scene 10 : Battle on the Floating Citadel

The party climbed the shimmering stairway, its endless glow pulling them closer to the floating citadel above. Suddenly, the descent of chaos disrupted their rhythm—Vodnisty and Harpiy-Zoryanki came hurtling down the stairs, wings thrashing, eyes wide with primal fear. They didn’t so much as glance at the trio, not even when the Peryatnikis squeaked questions at them. They only fled, as if chased by something unspeakable.

Mikhail’s hand immediately went to his Golden Revolver. Lev and Andry followed suit, drawing their weapons in silence. Even the mischievous Peryatnikis pressed tight against their chosen partners, their laughter replaced with trembling.

Andry winced, clutching his chest.
Andry (strained): “I… I feel something dangerous up there. It’s crushing me inside.”

Mikhail’s eyes sharpened.
Mikhail: “Not good. If even Guardians’ minions are fleeing, then something worse is waiting for us. Move—FAST!”

They sprinted upward, the stairwell thrumming with gathering dread. Andry stumbled but forced himself forward, refusing to fall behind. Then it struck—a shockwave ripped through the citadel, shaking the stair itself. The light warped, the Peryatnikis nearly blown off the edge, Andry almost thrown into the abyss. They clung on desperately.

Lev (gritting his teeth): “Arrgh—what now!?”

Andry (nervous, half-joking): “M-Maybe the Guardian’s just… having a stomach ache, maybe we should hel—”

Another shockwave hit, this one devastating. The staircase cracked, splintered, began crumbling beneath their feet.

Mikhail (roaring): “EVERYONE—JUMP! NOW!”

Without hesitation, they hurled themselves forward, landing hard upon the floating platform of the citadel. Andry scrambled upright, wide-eyed at the shattered stairs dissolving into light below.

Andry (anxious): “How will we get back down…?”
Lev (grim): “Bigger problem, kid.”

They turned—and the breath left their lungs.

Upon the broken battlements of the citadel, the Sacred Guardian Alkonost was locked in savage combat. Its radiant wings were battered, feathers torn, its melodic cry choked with pain. Opposite it stood two figures: the infamous Black Physician Strzygomir, and beside him a being no less terrifying—a man clad in a heretical suit that twisted divinity into nightmare.

Andry’s Zhivava pulsed violently, resonating with the Guardian’s agony. Lev’s sharp mind pieced it together instantly.
Lev (to himself): The boy’s linked to the Guardian… that’s why he’s faltering. Every wound Alkonost suffers, he feels too.

Mikhail’s face hardened as he truly saw the enemy. The man was clad in a twisted but powerful suit—a blasphemous union of ancient Zhivava-forged relics and Red Winter biotech. The exosuit shimmered obsidian-black, etched with runic glyphs that pulsed with Rod’s stolen veins of fire.

A skull-like helmet sealed over his head, its slitted eyes burning with a crimson divine glare. Clawed gauntlets flexed as shockwave cannons slid into place along his arms. His boots hissed, levitating him slightly above the broken stone, while molten energy traced a jagged spine of light down his back.

Over his shoulders hung a torn mantle marked with a sigil: a bleeding eye encasing a split sun, pierced by an inverted sword-shaped cross.

In that moment, he was no longer human.
He was a usurper demigod—born of blood, circuitry, and ambition. A twisted messiah beneath the painful gaze of Alkonost.

Suddenly, a memory struck Mikhail like a blade to the chest.
A classified file. Buried deep within the Capital HQ. One he should never have seen. The higher-ups had made it clear: what was written there could never be spoken aloud—not to his men, not even to the public.

Yet the image burned in his mind now. A forbidden report detailing a sect of heretics—madmen who sought to tear down the world’s veil and reconnect it to some “true world” it had once belonged to. Their name chilled him even now: the Disciples of the Fate Reverser.

The file had said they were eradicated, wiped from existence by the Red Winter Generals themselves. But the sigil stitched into that man’s mantle—the bleeding eye, the split sun, the inverted sword—was unmistakable. The same mark. The same cult.

How can one of them still be here? Fighting on equal ground with the Guardian itself?
The thought alone was blasphemy. But there he was, undeniable. And it meant this battle was more dangerous than anything they’d ever faced.

Mikhail forced himself to steady. He smiled softly, almost fatherly, and rested a hand on Andry’s shoulder.
Mikhail (calm, gentle): “Andry… I need you to stay hidden here with our little helpers.”

Andry’s eyes widened.
Andry: “But—I can help t—”

Lev’s face tightened, pained, but firm.
Lev: “Kid… listen to Chief’s words. Please.”

Mikhail’s gaze remained steady, voice unwavering.
Mikhail: “That man with Strzygomir… he’s not someone you can face. Not yet. He’s dangerous—dangerous even for us. He’s standing toe-to-toe with the Guardian.”

Andry bit his lip, torn.
Andry: “But if you need help then—”

Mikhail ruffled the boy’s hair with a smile that carried both warmth and weight.
Mikhail: “I promised your uncle I’d bring you back in one piece. Otherwise, he’ll kill me himself. Besides… I’ve got a trusted partner by my side. Don’t worry.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a command.
Mikhail: “Stay here. Protect our little friends. That’s your mission now. That’s an order.”

Andry’s fists clenched, but he nodded.
Andry: “Okay… I’ll follow your orders. But you have to come back.”

Mikhail chuckled softly.
Mikhail: “Count on it, kiddo.”

Lev couldn’t help but smile, pride glinting in his eyes. The Chief trusted him completely, and that bond was their greatest strength.

And so, as Andry huddled with the three trembling Peryatnikis in a broken corner of the citadel, watching with anxious eyes, the two Stersly veterans strode forward into the storm. Ahead, the Sacred Guardian Alkonost still clashed with Strzygomir and the heretical usurper, the battlefield burning with divine fury and corrupted ambition.

The half-ruined citadel shook with every clash.

Alkonost’s voice rang out in a melody that was both thunder and hymn. Each note sent ripples of radiant Zhivava through the air, shattering broken pillars into dust and forcing the sky itself to quiver. Its wings, vast and gilded with twilight light, unfurled like banners of divine judgment.

Strzygomir darted like a serpent in the chaos, his thin frame cloaked in a haze of toxic Zhivava. He hurled scalpel-like shards of bone and glass, each strike aimed at the Guardian’s joints, always probing, always dissecting. His laughter cut sharper than his weapons.

And beside him—worse than a plague—stood Alexander. The Sovereign Regalia Suit thrummed with unnatural power, glyphs blazing across its surface as molten veins of Rod energy lit up his frame. Each step cracked the citadel floor, each motion accompanied by shockwaves that tore feather-shaped clouds apart. He raised his gauntlet, and a crimson cannon-blast of compressed sound and flame struck Alkonost’s wing, forcing the Guardian to stagger back with a cry that echoed across the realm.

But Alkonost was no passive prey. With one sweep of its radiant wings, it unleashed a storm of light-feathers—each feather carrying the weight of forgotten truths. They cut through Strzygomir’s cloud and ricocheted against Alexander’s suit, forcing even the usurper god to brace himself.

The air became a battlefield of song, corruption, and steel.
One divine bird against a mad physician and a twisted messiah.
Every impact threatened to tear the citadel apart, and every breath promised the realm itself might shatter.

The battlefield was chaos incarnate, light and shadow colliding atop the broken citadel. Guardian and usurpers were locked in a furious stalemate, neither side yielding an inch.

Strzygomir (grinning with jagged teeth): “Alkonost… it’s still not too late. Submit to us. Hand over the Regalia.”
Alkonost (eyes burning, voice like thunder laced with melody): “Kakaya derzost!! (What insolence!!) … you wretched souls will never taint it with your grasp.”
Strzygomir (tilting his head, tone mockingly playful): “We’ll see… hehe.”

The air quaked as the armored man launched himself skyward, the Suit glowing like a false star. With a deafening crack, he doubled his speed, his frame blurring as crimson energy veins surged along his spine. He was no longer a man—he was a missile of flesh and machine.

He drove his fist toward the Guardian’s breast, the strike so forceful the very air peeled back. Yet Alkonost twisted with otherworldly grace, wings folding in a luminous arc as it veered aside.

But this was no careless miss. The armored man’s gauntlet shifted mid-motion, cannons folding open at the knuckles. Anticipation was written into every move. His fist followed the Guardian, turning the air into a corridor of compressed force.

Alkonost wrapped its radiant wings around itself, the shield shimmering like a cocoon of song. But the danger wasn’t the fist. It was Strzygomir.

The mad physician had slithered out of sight during the armored charge, his hand already cupped around a sinister sphere of crackling black glass. Its surface pulsed with inverted harmonics, a disharmonious core meant to unravel song itself.

Strzygomir (laughing wildly): “Peek-a-bomb!!”

The bomb arced through the air—silent, invisible to the Guardian’s resonance-sight, masked by the corrupted Zhivava bleeding from the Regalia Suit. The moment stretched. The Guardian’s shield was up. Its focus, diverted. It was blind to the real threat.

The sphere neared, humming at the edge of detonation—when a golden flare split the air.

From the shadows of the citadel’s ruin, a single shot rang out. A radiant bullet smashed into the orb, detonating it prematurely. The bomb whined as it was hurled away, exploding in a burst of warped resonance high above.

The shockwave rattled the citadel but left the Guardian untouched. Its luminous feathers unfurled, glaring down at its would-be killers.

Strzygomir (snarling, teeth bared): “Tch… who dares meddle?!”

But Alkonost’s eyes narrowed, no longer shaken. Its voice sang, the sound weaving through the battlefield, filled with wrath and divine resolve.

Alkonost: “Your tricks end here. Join me in saving the Regalia, O’ Novgorod’s Heroes.”

And as the words carried, the citadel itself seemed to shiver in anticipation of the next clash.

From the rubble of the ruined structures, the smoke shifted, curling like restless spirits. Two silhouettes cut through the haze. When the ash settled, they emerged—Chief Mikhail and Vice-Chief Lev, standing tall in their Stersly uniforms.

Their attire was a sharp contrast to the battlefield’s chaos. The uniforms were sleek, form-fitting combat gear—charcoal-black threaded with muted crimson veins that glowed faintly under the storm of Zhivava. Silver insignias gleamed over their hearts: the wing-and-blade crest of the Stersly. High-collared coats fluttered in the charged air, the fabric heavy but unyielding, reinforced with hidden plates that shimmered briefly when struck by stray sparks from the ongoing clash.

They looked almost out of place amid the divine luminescence and corrupted fire of the duel—a pair of disciplined soldiers stepping into a battlefield of gods and heretics. Yet the unshaken resolve in their eyes carved their presence into the scene.

Mikhail raised his golden revolver, its polished barrel catching the faint gleam of Alkonost’s light.
Lev stood beside him, calm and steady, his Fujara slung across his back like a blade yet unsheathed.

Two mortals in the storm—fragile against the scale of it, but unflinching.

The battlefield roared with chaos. The citadel trembled under each impact, stone shattering, light distorting in violent ripples.

Alkonost spread its radiant wings, feathers blazing like molten gold. Its cry resonated across the broken spires, shaking pillars to dust—but both enemies stood their ground, refusing to yield.

For Mikhail and Lev, the armored man’s identity was still a mystery. But he knew them. He had always known.

Alexander smirked behind the skull-helm, his real self hidden beneath the gentleman’s mask he’d worn for years. Tonight, the disguise no longer mattered. Tonight, he would destroy them before they could piece it all together.

Alexander (coarse, distorted voice):
“Well, well, well… look who decided to climb into my little kingdom.”

Strzygomir (chuckling, snake-like):
“Hehe… so the Chief of Stersly still breathes. But where’s your friend, the Guard Commander? Dead already? Hah! Did he scream when he fell?”

Mikhail (with biting sarcasm):
“Sorry to disappoint you. I’m still alive. As for him—he got his goddaughter back. Oh, and yes… apologies for tearing your little laboratory to pieces.”

The mocking jab hit its mark. Strzygomir’s grin faltered, twisting into a snarl at the mention of his ruined experiments. His aura spiked, needles twitching at his fingertips.

Alexander, however, remained stone-still. Provocation slid off him like rain. His focus burned only on annihilation—on seizing the Regalia.

Alexander (stoic, unyielding):
“Enough chatter. Are you here to talk—or to bleed?”

Mikhail (with grim smile):
“Don’t worry. We’ll give you a fight worth remembering.”

Lev (sharp, steady):
“And we’ll see who walks away with the Regalia.”

Strzygomir (mock-pleasant, venom laced):
“Oh, a Vice-Chief who knows forbidden things… resourceful indeed. Knowledge like that makes you valuable, boy. Shame I’ll have to cut it out of you.”

Mikhail’s eyes narrowed, his revolver gleaming faintly in his grip.

Mikhail (commanding, calm):
“This will be the biggest battle we’ve ever faced, Lev. Guard my flanks—as always.”

Lev (firm, resolute):
“Of course, I’ll be your shield.”

The citadel shuddered as if it, too, sensed the storm about to erupt.

Grey clouds pressed low over Novgorod, the sky itself mourning. Mild snow lay across the city, soft as ash, resting on rooftops and window ledges like fragile offerings. The streets were hushed, the people moving quietly beneath the curfew—shadows of themselves, their hearts split between fear, anger, and sorrow. The snowfall dulled the sharp edges of grief, a white blanket that tried to soothe the unrest simmering beneath.

A carriage rattled slowly through the streets, its wheels crunching against frozen cobblestones. Inside sat Rykov and Alena, the silence between them heavy but not uncomfortable. Soldiers patrolled the corners, their rifles gleaming in the pale light, eyes sharp for the faintest sign of unrest. The people shrank from the roadsides, giving way to the vehicle as though it carried the weight of both law and sorrow.

The further the carriage rolled, the quieter the city became. The familiar silhouettes of onion-domed churches and leaning rooftops gave way to frost-covered fields, and beyond them, the cemetery that marked the edge of Novgorod. A place where the city’s living sorrows met its silent dead.

The driver reined the horses to a halt at the gate, their breath steaming in the air. Rykov stepped out first, boots crunching on the snow, then turned and offered a hand to Alena. She accepted without hesitation, her eyes drawn at once to the rows of graves stretching beyond the wrought-iron fence.

The carriage halted at the cemetery gates, its wheels crunching against snow-packed earth. Rykov stepped out first, the weight of his Rosgvard uniform unmistakable — the heavy wool coat dyed in deep crimson and black, medals dull in the grey light, the fur collar dusted with frost. The uniform was both shield and burden, every stitch marking him as a commander still bound to his post, even here among the dead.

He turned and offered his hand to Alena. She emerged more like a figure of mourning than a ward of the Guard. Her cloak was long and charcoal grey, trimmed with pale fur, the hood framing her face against the chill. Beneath, a simple black wool dress fell in clean lines, belted at the waist with understated grace. No jewelry, no finery — only a white scarf wrapped at her throat, its soft folds catching flakes of snow like scattered ash. She looked less like the goddaughter of a commander and more like a grieving daughter, her presence quiet yet unwavering.

Together they walked through the gate, their steps sinking into the frost-bitten earth as the carriage rolled back toward the city. The cemetery was still, the kind of stillness that weighed heavy on the chest, as though the snow itself demanded reverence.

They stopped at a grave neither grand nor forgotten, its headstone simple and worn. The snow had gathered thick upon it, and Alena brushed it away with gloved fingers, revealing the name carved faintly into stone.

Alena (softly): “Stepan Markovich…”

Her voice lingered in the cold air, the name feeling unfamiliar on her lips yet strangely close to her heart.

Rykov (gruff, quiet): “He was my most trusted man. When I couldn’t be at your side, I sent him to be my eyes and shield. Every step you took through this city, he followed. Every threat that could have reached you, he stood in its way.”

Alena lowered her gaze. She remembered flashes—glimpses of a figure at the far end of an alley, the sudden warning to turn another way, food that mysteriously appeared at her door when hunger threatened. A ghost of her past she never truly saw until now.

Alena: “He… he gave his life so I could have mine. I never knew his name, Dyadya, but I always felt him.”

Rykov knelt down, the frost creaking under his weight. For the first time in years, his stern face faltered. He brushed his fingers against the cold stone as though steadying himself against it.

Rykov: “I gave him an order… and he obeyed until his last breath. And yet—I wasn’t there when he needed me most. That failure will weigh on me as long as I live.”

Alena placed her hand on his arm, steady, her voice stronger than the trembling wind.

Alena: “No, Dyadya. He fulfilled his promise. I’m alive because of him. And now, because of him, I am here with you. That is not failure. That is his victory.”

The snow continued to fall, layering the earth, softening sorrow into silence. At the grave, Alena set down a single white flower, its delicate petals trembling in the frost. Rykov followed, kneeling heavily, and pressed a cluster of red carnations into the soil — the soldier’s mark of remembrance. The contrast between them was stark: innocence beside sacrifice, gratitude beside duty.

For a moment, Novgorod’s fears and unrest felt distant, muffled beneath the snowfall. At this grave, there was no curfew, no city in fear—only memory, loyalty, and the quiet promise that sacrifice would not be forgotten.

Yet their walk was not over. Rykov guided her further into the cemetery, toward a more isolated, chilling plot. Snow lay heavy here, and the soil seemed darker, disturbed roughly. Alena stiffened as they approached the grave of the Captain of Red Group 2, Rosgvard, Novgorod Branch.

Alena (hesitant): “Another… someone important?”

Rykov (voice tight, shadowed): “He was taken by Strzygomir… my orders never reached him in time. What they did… what he became… I could not leave him like that.”

Alena’s mind flickered with memories of the hidden lab, the horrors Mikhail had described — flesh and machinery fused into a monstrous, screaming instrument of Strzygomir’s cruelty.

Alena (whispering): “Did you… end his suffering?”

Rykov’s jaw tightened.

Rykov (solemn, low): “Yes. It was the only mercy I could give him. No one should live as a weapon against their own soul.”

Alena knelt, placing a white flower beside the freshly dug soil. Rykov, for this grave, laid nothing but the weight of his respect and grief.

Alena (softly): “Two men… Stepan and him. Both protected me, both paid in their own ways. I… I will remember them. Always.”

They lingered for a moment, letting the snow fall, letting silence stretch between them. In the distance, faint tremors whispered across the city — a shiver of unrest from a battle they could not see, a storm that would touch their lives in ways they could not yet know. But here, at the edge of Novgorod, there was only memory, loyalty, loss, and the quiet promise that sacrifices would not be forgotten.