Ch 6 : Andry, Alkonost & Novgorod ( Part - 5 )

Scene 11 : Fate of the Guardian

The Citadel Battlements – Broken, burning, half-submerged in divine light

Snowfall from the outer realm twists in, mingling with glowing ash. The citadel groans like a dying beast, its towers crumbling as the resonance of song and corruption collide.

Alkonost rises, wings glowing, voice carrying both wrath and sorrow.
Alexander in the Sovereign Regalia Suit hovers above the cracked floor, his crimson runes flaring.
Strzygomir slinks through shadows, scalpel-shards orbiting him like a halo of knives.
Mikhail and Lev step forward, framed by light and ruin.
Andry and the Peryatnikis peek from their hiding place, breath held.

Alexander (mocking, distorted):
“Shall we see how long you two can last in the realm of gods?”

He thrusts his gauntlet down—a cannon-blast of molten resonance erupts, tearing the ground apart.

Mikhail rolls aside with soldier’s precision, revolver flashing three times. Golden bullets streak across the air, ricocheting like guided sparks against Alexander’s armor. They don’t pierce, but the impacts stagger his levitation briefly.

Lev sweeps his Fujara to his lips. A sharp, haunting note splits the battlefield.
The sound doesn’t wound—it bends trajectories. The next salvo of bullets curves midair, striking Alexander’s weak joints at impossible angles. Sparks fly.

Strzygomir (hissing, gleeful):
“Clever tricks! Let me answer!”

He slams his hand into the ground. Black veins of corrupted Zhivava sprout like roots, birthing skeletal serpents that lunge for Lev’s legs.
Lev counters with a melody—his notes unravel the serpents into dust.

But Strzygomir is already above him, scalpels flickering in a whirlwind.

Mikhail (roaring):
“Lev—DOWN!”

A golden flare cuts through the swarm, forcing Strzygomir back, but not before a scalpel grazes Lev’s cheek. Blood trickles, and Strzygomir licks his lips.

Above, Alkonost dives, wings spreading into a storm of radiant feathers. They hammer Alexander like meteors, each one glowing with forgotten truths.

Alexander doesn’t evade. He charges through, armor sparking, runes blazing hotter. His claws grab Alkonost’s wing mid-flight, dragging the Guardian down in a brutal slam that cracks the citadel floor.

The Guardian cries out—its melody warps into a pained dirge.
Andry clutches his chest, gasping, sharing its wound.

Andry (whisper, breaking):
“Stop… it hurts… they’re killing it…”

The Peryatnikis squeeze his hands, begging him not to go there yet.

Mikhail and Lev rush to aid the Guardian—but Strzygomir leaps between them, vomiting a haze of toxic green glass dust that melts stone. He cackles as shadows coil around him, whispering voices of dissected victims echoing in the haze.

Strzygomir (howling):
“Let’s see if your lungs are as strong as your guns, Chief!”

Mikhail covers his face with his coat, firing blindly through the smog. Lev’s melody pierces the fog, temporarily parting it like wind, but Strzygomir moves like a phantom—everywhere at once.

Alkonost struggles under Alexander’s grip. The Regalia Suit glows red-hot, glyphs flashing, as if devouring the Guardian’s resonance directly.

Alexander (growling, voice resonant and machine-twisted):
“Sing all you like, bird. I will consume every note.”

Suddenly—Alkonost flares, releasing a shockwave of pure harmony. The blast tears Alexander off its body, but both stagger.

Lev seizes the moment, his Fujara unleashing a piercing chord. The sound-lance slams into Alexander’s side, cracking a segment of the armor—a glimpse of raw flesh beneath, glowing with corrupted Zhivava.

Strzygomir notices. His smile widens.

Strzygomir (whispering to himself):
“Ohhh… so the Mayor still bleeds. How… fascinating.”

Alexander whirls, furious, almost striking his ally, but Strzygomir only laughs harder.
“You’re not invincible, little tyrant. And I’ll be the one to carve you open!”

The battlefield fractures—not just allies vs. enemies, but a tenuous, snarling alliance threatening to collapse.

Andry grips the edge of the broken wall, tears in his eyes, Zhivava thrumming violently.

Andry (to himself, whispering):
“If I stay here… they’ll die…”

The Peryatnikis tremble, sensing his resolve. One clutches his clothes as if telling him that if he steps in nothing will be the same again.

Andry’s eyes blaze faintly, torn between Mikhail’s order and his own surging power, as the battlefield below explodes in divine feathers, golden bullets, discordant melodies, poisoned fog, and molten shockwaves.

Alkonost (voice thundering through the realm):

“I’ve had enough of your transgressions.
It’s time you pay for your sins.
This is my realm — and I am its protector and Guardian.
LEAVE NOW... OR DIE!”

Alexander (mocking, his voice echoing through the mask):

“Try if you can… Guardian.”

Strzygomir (grinning like a rabid beast):

“Hehe… I can’t wait to cut open a Guardian…”

Then—light.
Flames of gold and white erupt from Alkonost’s wings.
The air vibrates—not with sound, but with judgment.
Each feather burns like a living scripture, shedding radiant ash as the battlefield transforms into a storm of molten sky and broken faith.

Alkonost stands at the center — its halo split into three blazing rings, spinning like burning suns.
The sound it emits isn’t music.
It’s truth screaming through reality.

Mikhail shields his face, his coat flaring in the divine wind.
The ground beneath them melts into liquid gold.
Lev’s shield trembles, the edges warping under the frequency of divinity itself.

Alexander’s mask cracks.
Behind the fracture, something monstrous glimmers — the truth of the man behind the title.
His human disguise falters under the weight of holiness but somehow his identity was not revealed yet.

Strzygomir stumbles, clutching his chest as his blood turns into light bursting from his veins.

Alkonost (voice shaking heaven and stone):

“For every soul you have torn,
For every lie you forged in flesh and faith —
The Divine shall answer!”

The air thickens.
Sound becomes pressure.
Pressure becomes weight.

The enemies fall to their knees—not out of submission, but gravity.
The realm itself is bowing.

Alexander (through gritted teeth):

“You call yourself divine… yet you serve nothing!”

Alkonost’s eyes ignite—two suns bleeding radiance.
A single feather detaches—
—falling like slow lightning—
—then detonates into a symphony of destruction.

A golden shockwave tears across the realm, shattering the ground into rivers of molten light.
Each current morphs into singing spirits—souls freed from Strzygomir’s abominations, crying vengeance through divine harmony.

Strzygomir (screaming, half in agony, half disbelief):

“My creations—no—stop! I made you—!”

The spirits swarm him, tearing through his alchemical barriers, branding his flesh with glowing glyphs of penance.

Mikhail and Lev dive behind the broken pillars as divine fire engulfs the arena.

Lev (panting, eyes wide):

“Chief—this isn’t rage… it’s a god cleansing its own wounds!”

Mikhail stares at Alkonost, awe and terror blending in his eyes.

“No, Lev… this isn’t rage.
It’s judgment.
We’re standing in the middle of a trial.”

Alexander (on his knees, armor cracked, teeth grinding):

“Hey, Strzygomir… do something! Otherwise we’ll be turned to ash!”

The molten light floods the battlefield, swallowing the sky.
Alkonost spreads its wings wide—each movement tearing the air like a hymn turned weapon. Feathers spin outward in divine spirals, razor-sharp and blazing with judgment.

Every strike cuts deeper than steel; it sears the soul.

Alexander’s armor screams under the assault—runes flaring, plates melting at the edges.
He endures, barely.
But Strzygomir is less fortunate—each feather carves glowing wounds into his flesh, his blood boiling into light.
Still, the madman laughs.

Strzygomir (in agony, grinning through blood):

“To fight gods… we need the power of gods.
And it’s fortunate that… I always carry this with me.”

He reaches into his tattered coat and withdraws a small, keyless box—an artifact of eerie craftsmanship.
No hinges. No seams.
Only shifting runes that shimmered like imprisoned stars.

He pricks his finger and lets a drop of blood fall upon it.
The box hums. Then opens itself.

A sound escapes it—no mortal ear should hear such a tone.
A reversed prayer.
A note of anti-song.

The realm convulses.

The air fractures.
The molten ground erupts into veins of black fire.
Even Alkonost falters—its divine aura flickering, feathers bending inward under an unseen gravitational pull.

Mikhail and Lev, who had been kneeling under the divine pressure, are caught in the shockwave—thrown like ragdolls across the shattered courtyard.
They crash into the debris-strewn floor—rolling to a halt right before the broken wall where Andry hides with the Peryatnikis.

Andry (eyes wide, horrified):

“Chief! Vice-Chief!”

He crawls toward them as Mikhail groans, pushing himself up through the ash.

Mikhail (gritting his teeth, rising):

“We’re fine… stay back, kid.”

Lev steadies his breath, gripping his shield, its edges glowing faintly in defiance.
The two men stand side by side again—scarred, battered, but unbroken.

They turn toward the center of the chaos—
—and see Strzygomir standing amidst a spiraling vortex of inverted light, holding the open box above his head.

Strzygomir (voice breaking into maniacal exaltation):

“Do you feel it, Guardian?! The forgotten essence beneath your sacred song?
The world’s reverse note—the chord of the Fate Reverser!”

A cold, humming halo erupted from the opened box. Strzygomir held the object inside the box aloft and the air answered—threads of anti-light webbed outward, knitting into a slender, shimmering shield that wrapped around him and Alexander as if the world itself had sutured them into a single wound. Alkonost’s glorious feathers struck the barrier and shredded like paper against tempered steel; sparks of divine flame spat and died on contact.

Alexander grunted, pain and bewilderment ripping his voice.
Alexander (through gritted teeth): “What is this…? It’s… contrary to Zhivava—some inverse force I can’t parse.”

Strzygomir smiled, a thin, clinical grin. His eyes gleamed with that dangerous mix of pride and madness.
Strzygomir (soft, triumphant): “It’s no lie—this blade bears a shard of our God, the Fate Reverser. Funny, isn’t it? A scientist, an exile, a sinner—bowing to a god. But faith is practical when you can turn it into an instrument. The First Disciple forged this and entrusted it to me, the Third Disciple. With it—the Suture Blade, my personal weapon—I will cut you open and pluck the Regalia from your corpse.”

He let the last words fall like a scalpel. The shield around them pulsed in time, hungry for the next strike.

Mikhail realized at once the Suture Blade was no bluff. The shield the box had birthed drank his bullets like rain on stone. He squeezed the trigger again and again—gold flashing, casings spitting—but every round pinged harmlessly off that shimmering weave.

Lev slammed the Fujara to his lips and blew a piercing counter-note meant to fray Strzygomir’s concentration. The sound cut through the ash-choked air and made the shield tremble, but the blade’s lattice drank the vibration as easily as it swallowed the light. It held.

Mikhail, leaning on a fractured balustrade to keep from being shoved back by the aftershocks, spat the question through clenched teeth.
Mikhail: “What now? Nothing’s working. Don’t tell me you don’t have something.”

Lev’s eyes were sharp and quick, thinking three beats ahead.
Lev: “If what he says is true, the Suture Blade opposes the Guardian’s resonance. Then by that logic—if the Blade can silence the Guardian, the Guardian can silence the Blade.”

Mikhail’s jaw tightened; the strategy landed like a cold weight.
Mikhail: “So you mean… we have to help the Guardian. You heard him—right?”

From the broken sky, Alkonost’s voice answered, low and ancient, the sound folding into their bones.
Alkonost: “Yes. I hear you, my heroes. I will lend you my power. In return—make them pay. Let the guilty feel the reprisal of those they have torn and twisted in my realm.”

The words hit like a promise and a summons. Around them, the citadel held its breath.

Alkonost unfurled two radiant feathers, each shimmering with divine light. They hovered between his wings before spiraling toward Mikhail and Lev. As they circled the two men, the feathers dissolved into motes of pure resonance, fusing into their bodies.
A surge of holy energy coursed through them—their Stersly uniforms glowed like sanctified armor, radiating with newfound might. They stood as twin beacons of hope in a collapsing realm.

Strzygomir snarled, shielding himself from the Guardian’s relentless feather storm. His barrier flickered under the divine pressure. Nearby, Alexander staggered to his feet—his armor cracked, his mask split down the center, and yet his eyes burned with morbid fascination.

Alexander (groaning, half-laughing): “Heh… tell me, if I became one of the Disciples… would I get a weapon like that?”

Strzygomir (laughing through blood and pain): “Every Disciple receives a personal weapon. If you survive long enough to earn it—then yes.”

Alexander (grinning, voice darkening): “We’ll see about that.”

The feathers’ light hadn’t faded—it pulsed stronger. Mikhail raised his weapon, and the barrel ignited with divine flame. Each bullet transformed midair into shards of radiant energy, cutting through Strzygomir’s defensive field like a hail of burning glass.
Lev’s Fujara glowed from within, and when he blew into it, the sound wasn’t music—it was a resonant shockwave. The vibrations bent space itself, distorting the flow of Strzygomir’s Suture field and making his movements falter.

The divine and the scientific now clashed head-on: holy resonance against twisted logic, Guardian’s will against the will of a man who dared to dissect gods.

Strzygomir tossed a vial toward Alexander. The liquid inside shimmered unnaturally, and as soon as Alexander drank it, his wounds began to knit together at an alarming rate. He rose to his feet once more—bloodied, battered, yet emanating a terrifying resolve. His shattered armor only made him look more feral, like a wounded predator unwilling to die. The message in his burning eyes was clear: he would not leave without the Regalia.

Both men stood side by side again, ready to challenge the divine.

Strzygomir gripped the Suture Blade and slashed the air once—precise, surgical. A shimmering arc tore through the realm itself. The energy wave cleaved across the battlefield and struck Alkonost directly. The Guardian shrieked as the divine feathers scattered like burning embers. The impact hurled it across the ruins, smashing through the broken pillars of the citadel.

The world fell silent for an instant—none of them could react fast enough.

Strzygomir dropped the shield as soon as the strike landed. Alexander immediately lunged forward, dashing toward the fallen Guardian. Mikhail and Lev moved in tandem—divine light trailing from their steps. Mikhail opened fire, his bullets slamming into the weak points of Alexander’s cracked armor, forcing him back. Lev sprinted toward Alkonost to defend and heal it.

Strzygomir (grinning, voice trembling with joy): “How was that, Guardian? It must feel refreshing—to bleed again after centuries!”

Alkonost (bleeding, yet defiant): “Heh… as if that would make me bow to you. You’ll never have the Regalia.”

Alexander (smirking, voice venomous): “Don’t mock me, bird. After an attack like that, you can’t even fly. I’ll tear it straight from your heart.”

Mikhail (taunting): “As if we’ll let you. And judging by the look of your friend—he’s about to collapse. That weapon’s power isn’t kind to its wielder, is it?”

Indeed, Strzygomir was trembling. The swing had drained nearly everything from him. His breath came ragged; his pale face glistened with cold sweat. The Suture Blade, potent even for the Black Physician, had consumed more energy than his body could bear. He sealed it back inside the box, panting.

Strzygomir (turning to Alexander): “You’ll have to handle them now… I’ll give you what support I can.”

Alexander (smirking, raising his hand): “Then it’s time to end this… Stersly Chief.”

Mikhail (steady, resolute): “Lev—heal the Guardian. I’ll stop this armored lunatic.”

Lev: “Yes, sir!”

The next moment, the sky erupted. Mikhail and Alexander shot upward, clashing in midair like comets colliding. Mikhail’s bullets burned with divine flame, while Alexander hurled beams of dark energy from his gauntlets. Each strike shook the crumbling citadel—their duel illuminated the realm with explosions of light and shadow.

Below, Lev knelt beside the Guardian, channeling divine resonance into Alkonost’s wounds. The faint glow of feathers spread over his hands, mending the divine flesh. He looked up—he could barely track the two combatants in the sky; they moved faster than thought.

But Strzygomir wasn’t done.

He reached into his coat and hurled several glass vials to the ground. They shattered, releasing a swarm of grotesque, chittering insects—each one mutating, growing grotesquely large within seconds.

Lev’s eyes widened. He could destroy them easily, but their numbers multiplied by the hundreds. They weren’t of this realm—foreign, invasive, wrong. He tightened his grip on the Fujara and raised a shimmering force field using Alkonost’s feathers. The barrier held firm, but with every slam from the monstrous swarm, cracks began to splinter across it.

He grit his teeth. “If I fight, the healing stops… that’s what they’re counting on.”

The Guardian groaned beside him—its wings twitching but refusing to rise. The wound from the Suture Blade had temporarily disabled its divine power. Had it not moved slightly at the last instant, the cut might have severed its essence entirely.

From the shadows, Andry watched it all—the storm of chaos, the duel in the skies, the crawling horror below. His chest ached when the Guardian screamed; he felt its pain as if it were his own.

He knew he was breaking his promise to Mikhail… but he could no longer stay hidden.

Fear still gripped his heart. Yet stronger than that fear was the resolve burning within him. He turned to the trembling Peryatnikis beside him, their eyes wide with terror. He whispered softly, “Don’t be afraid. I have to go.”

Andry rose, his silhouette lit by the flashes of divine battle. He gazed at the sky—where Mikhail and Alexander tore through the air like twin storms—and at the ground, where the Black Physician’s swarm devoured the light.

Then, taking a deep breath, he stepped forward.

The insects were gnawing at the weakening force field, their claws scraping like nails against glass. One of them—larger than the rest, a grotesque hybrid of chitin and machine—lurched forward, overtaking the swarm. It screeched and reared to strike the barrier.

Before it could land the blow, a sudden cloud of ash swept across the field.
The air turned thick and suffocating. The swarm began to convulse—legs twitching, wings tearing apart mid-beat—as the ash invaded their bodies. One by one, they burst open like overripe fruit, spraying black ichor and glowing bile.

The largest creature recoiled, clicking in alarm. It sensed the Guardian. It sensed Lev. But there was something else—a presence it couldn’t perceive, a blind spot in existence itself.

Then—
A dagger wreathed in swirling ash sliced through the haze and pierced the monster’s head, silencing it instantly.

Strzygomir (snarling): “Who dares kill my creations?!”

From the ashes, a silhouette stepped forward.
At first, only his outline showed—slender, steady, human. Then the haze thinned, revealing Andry.

Scene 12 : Golden Judge's Directive

Lev froze when he saw Andry step through the veil of smoke. Shock flashed through his eyes—but deep down, he’d always known fate would pull the boy into this battle one way or another.
Alkonost’s luminous form trembled, its once-glorious wings dimmed and torn. The wound left by the Suture Blade refused to close. Divine ichor dripped like falling stars. Even for a celestial being, pain was a cruel teacher. The Guardian knew—if it didn’t act now, all three of its chosen warriors would die.

Lev: “Kid… what are you doing here? This isn’t a playground—it’s suicide!”
Andry: “I know… but I can’t just watch you die! I won’t!”
Alkonost: “My child… your arrival was long foreseen. Lev, cease your healing—aid the boy instead.”
Lev: “But you’re still bleeding, you’ll—”
Alkonost: “My pain can wait. Their lives cannot.”

Lev clenched his jaw, torn between orders and instinct—but he obeyed. Together, he and Andry faced the horde of abominations that Strzygomir had unleashed. The Guardian turned its fading gaze toward the sky, whispering an ancient prayer through the tremor of its feathers.

Above, the heavens thundered.
Mikhail and Alexander clashed amidst stormlight—bullets against blades, wings of gold against engines of war. Mikhail still didn’t realize who he was fighting… that beneath the cracked armor and bloodied mask was the tyrant of Novgorod himself.

Meanwhile below, the onslaught grew fierce. The insectoid horrors closed in, swarming with grotesque unity.
Strzygomir (mocking): “Ah… the boy lives. Tell me, was the girl still breathing when you left? Hmhmhm…”
Andry (snapping): “You bastard—I'll rip your tongue out!”
Lev: “Don’t let him get in your head. He feeds on your anger—focus!”

Andry’s ash flared from the ground, rising like spectral serpents devouring the creatures one by one, while Lev’s Fujara sang—a disorienting, spectral melody that scattered the swarm and created openings. Together, they carved out moments of survival in the chaos.

Then came the shock that shattered the battlefield.

Alexander roared, overloading his armor’s Zhivava core. His body surged with power beyond human tolerance—his eyes burning white through the cracks in his mask. He vanished from sight and reappeared behind Mikhail in a blink.

Metal screamed.
Mikhail’s left arm tore free. His stomach erupted in crimson light as Alexander’s blade punctured through him. Pain wracked his body—but even dying, Mikhail refused to fall without firing one last round of divine justice.

Mikhail: “Take this… you usurper. Pay for your sins.”

Alkonost’s feathers shimmered overhead, their divine hymn flooding the battlefield. Golden resonance wrapped around Mikhail as he aimed skyward. His revolver pulsed with radiant energy, reshaping itself into a relic of judgment—the Heavenly Revolver.

Mikhail: “Authorization confirmed… Heaven Protocol—initiating Alkonost Directive.”

Lev: “Chief, stop! You’ll—”
The Stersly emblem on Mikhail’s arm flared into divine symbols floating midair. His weapon expanded, its barrel lined with celestial runes. His breath came ragged, but his eyes shone like a soldier at peace.

Mikhail: “Don’t worry… we’ll save Novgorod.”

The ground beneath him split into a glowing pattern—part divine sigil, part tactical map.
Then, silence.
He raised his weapon.

“By the Directive of Heaven—execute.”

A cataclysm followed.
Seven radiant wings erupted around him, spiraling like a choir of halos. From them poured thousands of bullets—each a note in Alkonost’s song. Every shot struck with divine rhythm, turning monsters into light, science into dust, and sin into silence.

The Guardian shielded Lev and Andry with its tattered wings.
Strzygomir screamed, shielding his face as his creations dissolved.
Alexander’s armor cracked open under the resonance, the mask shattering—his human face visible for a split second before he crashed to the ground.

When the radiance faded, the field was silent.
Both Mikhail and Alexander had fallen.

Mikhail lay bleeding, his left arm gone, a hole in his abdomen, the backlash of divine energy consuming him. Alexander, mangled but still breathing, stumbled to his feet, gun trembling in his hand. He looked down at Mikhail—the Golden Judge of the Stersly—and fired once into his heart.

The world fell quiet.

Lev and Andry sprinted toward him, tears streaming. Mikhail smiled faintly as he saw them—his last sight, his final comfort.
His body began to break apart into golden motes of light, dissolving into the realm’s air.

Andry: “No! Chief—please!”
Lev (voice trembling): “Chief… no, you can’t—!”

Strzygomir’s laughter echoed through the fading storm.
He stepped forward, trembling but victorious, and plunged the Suture Blade into Mikhail’s chest, cutting through divine remnants to extract the Regalia.
The Guardian roared in pain. Its energy was nearly spent protecting the others.

Lev: “No! Stop!”
Too late—the Regalia was ripped free, pulsing in Strzygomir’s hand.

Alexander: “We got what we came for! Hahahaha!”
Strzygomir: “And so, curtain call… heroes of Novgorod.”

A rift tore open behind them as he slashed the air with his Suture Blade, the wound in reality bleeding darkness. He and Alexander disappeared through it, vanishing like ghosts.

Andry: “You monsters! You can’t just run!”
His scream cracked the silence—grief and rage twisting together.

Alkonost fell to its knees. The realm itself trembled, cracks of light running through the sky.
Alkonost: “My heroes… you must leave. This world cannot hold much longer.”
Andry: “We can’t abandon you! Not after—”
Lev (tears streaming): “Kid… listen to the Guardian. The Chief gave his life for this moment—don’t waste it.”

Andry collapsed beside Mikhail’s fading light, fists pounding the ground.
Andry: “Why am I so powerless!?”

The Peryatnikis—the small, glowing familiars—floated down. One of them, Mikhail’s companion, wept like a child. It brushed Andry’s cheek, wiping his tears with tiny, trembling hands.

Alkonost: “Forgive me, my heroes. I, Alkonost—the failed Guardian—could not protect him. He was a soldier beyond compare… one whose will could challenge even the divine.”

The sky fractured. The realm’s creatures began dissolving into light. Alkonost summoned the last of its strength, creating a shining gateway—a bridge of song leading home.

Alkonost: “Go now. This portal will take you back to Novgorod.”
Andry shook, unable to speak, his heart shattered.
Lev stood tall, even as his tears fell freely. He placed his hand over his heart, saluting in the Stersly code.

Lev: “Directive ends, not the duty. The Code remembers its soldiers.”

Alkonost smiled faintly as its feathers turned to dust.
Alkonost: “Now go forth… my heroes.”
Andry: “Goodbye… I’ll never forget you.”

And so, they stepped through the gate—the last two survivors of the battle of Realm of Alkonost—leaving behind the dying light of a Guardian and the legacy of the fallen Golden Judge.

The blinding radiance swallowed them whole—then vanished.

Lev and Andry stumbled out of the collapsing light, crashing onto the cold stones of Novgorod’s town square. The once-silent night was pierced by the echo of the collapsing realm fading like a distant storm. The air smelled of ozone and ash; feathers of light drifted down and dissolved into dust.

Lev tried to stand but collapsed to one knee. His breathing was shallow, the glow of Alkonost’s blessing flickering faintly across his chest insignia. Andry reached out, trembling, before his vision blurred and the weight of exhaustion dragged him down beside his senior.

The two of them lay sprawled on the ancient stones—heroes returned from a world no one else could ever imagine.

The first to spot them was a Rosgvard patrol stationed at the perimeter. The soldiers froze, stunned by the sight of the Stersly insignia glowing faintly on their scorched uniforms.

Rosgvard Sergeant (shouting): “Medic! Over here! It’s the Chief’s men—move!”

Boots thundered across the plaza. Floodlights flared to life. Soon, the town square was filled with the red insignia of Rosgvard and the blue armbands of the Stersly’s recovery division.

Both Lev and Andry were lifted onto stretchers, their bodies covered with burn marks and divine residue that pulsed faintly like living light. The familiar insignia of the Pirogov Medical Corps appeared through the haze—field doctors in white tactical coats with silver crosses.

Pirogov Medic (to his team): “Pulse irregular but stable. They’re suffering from acute Zhivava exhaustion. Get plasma ready—careful, that’s divine residue, don’t touch it barehanded!”

The medics worked quickly, transferring them into the armored ambulance units. The sirens wailed low, carrying them through the midnight streets of Novgorod back to the Stersly infirmary.

As the doors closed, the last glowing feather of Alkonost drifted through the air, landing silently on Andry’s chest before fading away.

The war wasn’t over.
But Novgorod had its heroes back—broken, scarred, and changed forever.

The soft hum of machines filled the sterile air of the Stersly infirmary.
White curtains swayed gently with the breeze seeping through a broken vent, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic and gun oil. Somewhere near his ear, a steady beeping echoed — rhythmic, alive, stubborn.

For the first time in four days, Andry’s fingers twitched.
His body felt impossibly heavy, as if he were still buried beneath the weight of Alkonost’s realm. The divine melody that had once surrounded him was gone — replaced by the cold hum of generators and the muffled voices of soldiers outside the ward.

When his eyes cracked open, a dull amber glow flooded his vision. He blinked, once, twice — adjusting to the familiar, imperfect ceiling. No marble arches, no sacred glyphs, no divine light. Just the cracked paint of Novgorod’s infirmary and the faint shimmer of fluorescent lamps on metal trays.

Then he saw her.

Alena.
Head bowed, silver hair spilling loosely over her shoulders, her uniform jacket draped around her like a forgotten shield. One hand clasped his — tightly, desperately — as if holding him there by sheer will. Her knuckles were pale, her breath slow. She must have sat like that for hours… maybe days.

Beside her sat Boris Rykov, the iron-faced commander of the Rosgvard, his posture as rigid as a sentry but his expression worn by fatigue. The lines on his face had deepened; command had aged him more than war ever did. His hand rested on his knee, not for discipline — but control. When Andry’s breathing shifted, he noticed instantly.

Boris (low, controlled):
“...You’re awake, my boy.”

The sound stirred Alena. Her head snapped up — eyes wide, glistening with disbelief.

Alena (whispering, trembling):
“...Andry?”

His lips parted. His throat was dry and raw, his voice barely a rasp.

Andry:
“Where... am I?”

Alena’s eyes welled before she could answer. She squeezed his hand tighter, as if afraid he’d fade if she let go.

Boris (gruff, soft beneath the tone):
“Infirmary. Four days you’ve been out. We thought we’d lost you.”
(pauses, sighs) “...You gave us a damn scare.”

The door hissed open.

Lev Sidorov stepped in — coat unbuttoned, shirt wrinkled, exhaustion etched into the corners of his eyes. His bandaged arm hung stiff at his side. When he saw Andry sitting up, the stoic officer inside him cracked for an instant — replaced by pure relief.

Lev:
“Well... look who decided to wake up. About time, kid.”

Andry’s gaze darted between them — confusion mixing with dread.

Andry:
“Back...? What happened? The Guardian... Chief Mikhail... where—”

The air stilled. Even the monitor seemed to quiet itself.

Boris exhaled deeply and exchanged a grave look with Lev.

Lev (softly):
“Chief Mikhail’s gone. We brought back nothing but his emblem. The Guardian took the rest.”

Andry’s chest tightened. Fragments returned — the hymn of light, the feathers, Mikhail’s final smile before dissolving into radiance. His heart sank under the weight of memory.

Alena looked away, biting her lip.

Andry (voice cracking):
“He… he saved us. All of us. And I couldn’t even—”

Lev (firm but heavy):
“He knew the cost, Andry. That’s what Stersly duty means — you don’t die for glory, you die so the mission lives. You honor him by moving forward.”

Boris stood, crossing his arms — the faint creak of his leather gloves punctuating the silence.

Boris:
“There’s more you need to hear. The world didn’t wait for you to wake up, boy.”

He took a step forward, his shadow falling across the bed.

Boris:
“Four days ago, General Gabriel — the Red Army Commander himself — returned to Novgorod. The city was furious after the City Hall blast. Gabriel didn’t calm them… he fueled them. Claimed he’d avenge the dead and purify Novgorod’s honor.”

Lev’s expression hardened; he already knew where this was going.

Boris:
“He rallied the people, the Red Army, even the bureaucrats. He and Alexander led the invasion into Pskov.”

Andry’s heart froze. His home.

Boris:
“The first to fall was your superior — Chief Domna Tereshkova. Assassinated before the army even arrived. Pskov’s Guard Commander went missing soon after. The rest of the leadership were executed. Soldiers were wiped out. Civilians fled to the Temple of Rod — it’s the last standing refuge.”

Andry’s hands trembled violently. The name Domna echoed in his head like a broken bell — her strict voice, her wry smiles, the rare laughter over shared tea. Memories flashed in fragments — her scolding, her pride, her motherly warmth.

Andry (barely audible):
“They… killed Miss Domna? They destroyed Pskov?”

Lev (grim):
“Reports confirm it. Alexander commands the occupation personally. As for Strzygomir — he vanished. But intelligence says he’s heading west… carrying something he stole from the Guardian’s realm.”

Alena:
“You’ve only been in Novgorod a week, Andry. One week... and your whole world’s changed.”

Tears welled in his eyes, silent but burning. The weight of it all — Mikhail’s sacrifice, Pskov’s fall, Alkonost’s melody fading into silence — crushed him like a collapsing star.

Boris placed a calloused hand on his shoulder. His voice, though rough, carried the warmth of family.

Boris:
“You’ve got your mother’s stubbornness. I know what you’re thinking.”

Andry:
“I have to go. My father and brother… they’ll be waiting.”

Alena:
“But you’re still recovering. You won’t even make it past the gates in this state.”

Boris (half-smirking):
“Heh. I knew you’d say that. Go then — but not alone. You’re fast; you move first. I’ll follow with a Rosgvard team once you breach the border.”

Andry:
“Thank you… Dyadya.”

Lev:
“I’ll stay to protect Novgorod and Alena. Don’t look back, kid. Just get them out.”

Alena:
“I’ll wait for you, Andry. Don’t you dare make me wait too long.”

Boris:
“We’ll bring everyone home, I promise.”

Andry managed a faint smile — one born not of hope, but resolve. The faces around him weren’t just comrades anymore; they were family.

Lev (raising a hand in salute):
“Godspeed, soldier. May the Guardian’s song guide your steps.”

Minutes later, Andry was gone.
He slipped into his uniform — battered, bloodstained, but his — and vanished into the cold morning air. His Zhivava pulsed faintly beneath his skin, thrumming with the Guardian’s lingering blessing.

Hours later, he reached the outskirts of Pskov.
Smoke coiled over the ruined fortress-city like black serpents against the crimson sky. The banners were torn, the walls collapsed — his home reduced to ash and echo.

He stood at the edge of the forest, the wind tugging at his cloak. His heartbeat steadied, eyes blazing with quiet fury.

He had inherited the legacies of both his fallen chiefs — Domna Tereshkova of Pskov and Mikhail Zolotnikov of Novgorod.

Now, Andry Petrovik carried both their burdens.
And this time — he wouldn’t let another song end in silence.