Ch 7 : Tree Giant Vs Pskov’s Heroes (Part - 1)

Scene 1 : Justice Vs Revenge

The underground jail beneath Pskov’s garrison breathed with damp despair.
Flickering torchlight licked the walls, dripping water echoed through the corridors, and the faint hum of distant artillery trembled through the stone. Chains clinked whenever someone shifted. The air reeked of rust, sweat, and wet stone — like a grave still waiting to be sealed.

After Andry’s retelling — everything about Novgorod, the fall of the Guardian Alkonost, Chief Mikhail’s sacrifice, Strzygomir’s weapon, and the mysterious armored man — the chamber sank into a silence so thick it felt alive.
It wasn’t disbelief. It was the weight of truth pressing down, heavy as the stones above their heads.
No one there — not even Andry — knew the true face behind that armor.

The echo of his final words lingered in the damp air long after his voice gave out.
Even the torches seemed to burn quieter, their flames curling inward as though afraid to disturb the stillness.

Timothy Dovmont’s pale eyes glinted faintly in the low light. The once-proud mayor and war hero of Pskov sat still, hands resting on his knees, his shoulders slumped from the invisible weight of a thousand battles.
But this one… this was a war no sword could win.

Dovmont (low, voice like gravel):
“So… the Guardian itself fell. Mikhail Zolotnikov, the Golden Judge — gone. And Novgorod still marches on.”

He turned toward Andry, the faint glow catching the scar carved down his cheek.
“You’ve walked through hell, boy,” he said softly. “And you came back carrying its ashes.”

Andry lowered his head. His hands trembled — not from fear, but memory.
“I thought… if I could reach them — if I could do something — it would matter.”
His voice cracked. “But I failed everyone. I couldn’t even save Chief Mikhail.”

Beside him, Taras Petrovik sat in silence. His weathered fingers tapped lightly against his wrist chain — tick, tick, tick — the phantom rhythm of a clock long broken.
He studied his son — not with judgment, but with the aching tenderness of a father who has lost too much and still refuses to lose hope.

Taras (softly):
“No, my son. You didn’t fail. You came back alive. You brought us the truth — not glory, not miracles — but truth. That’s worth more than a hundred victories.”

He reached over and placed a rough hand over Andry’s.
“Your mother used to say — the gods test only those they still remember.”

Andry bit down on his lip, swallowing the tremor in his throat. Around him, prisoners began stirring — small movements, the faint scrape of chains, like hearts remembering how to beat.

A young blacksmith, his face smeared with soot, muttered from the shadows:
“So the Guardian was real… and Novgorod destroyed it? They call themselves righteous men, yet they kill the divine.”

An older merchant, once draped in velvet now reduced to rags, let out a bitter laugh.
“Righteous? They’d burn Rod’s own temple if it bought them another seat in the Capital.”

A scholar, thin as parchment, spoke next — his voice rasping with equal parts fear and fascination.
“Strzygomir… yes, I’ve read his name. A defector scientist during the early Red Winter reforms. They called him the Black Physician. But a weapon that kills a Guardian…”
He shook his head. “That’s not science. That’s blasphemy with a scalpel.”

The chamber filled with whispers — anger, despair, disbelief, and something far more dangerous than all three: resolve.

Dovmont (cutting through the noise):
“Enough.”

His tone wasn’t harsh — it was grounding.
“We will not rot here gnashing our teeth like cowards. The boy returned with truth — and truth is the first weapon of freedom. The people of Novgorod are not our enemies… but Alexander is. I knew something rotten brewed behind that man’s smile. Still, he couldn’t have done this alone. Someone hides behind him — pulling strings from the dark.”

He stepped closer, his shadow stretching long across the wall.
“Tell me, Andry… did Alkonost leave you anything? Any sign, any blessing?”

Andry hesitated, then pressed his hand to his chest.
“When Chief Zolotnikov fired his last shot… some of Alkonost’s Zhivava entered me. I can still feel it — faint, but alive. It’s… warm.”

He clenched his fist. A soft glow pulsed beneath his skin — not bright, but steady and real.

Gasps rippled through the prisoners. The glow was proof — fragile but undeniable — that the divine had not abandoned them.

Taras (quietly, reverent):
“Rod preserve us… the Guardian’s will lives through him.”

Dovmont (nodding solemnly):
“Then Pskov isn’t finished. Not yet.”

He turned toward the prisoners, his voice swelling with authority and faith alike.
“You hear me, men? Our city may have fallen, but as long as one son of Pskov carries the Guardian’s light — we endure.”

Chains rattled. Fists clenched. Whispers rose into prayers. Curses turned into oaths. Hope flared again, fragile but fierce.

At the back of the chamber, Rusalka leaned against the wall, her moss-lined armor dimly reflecting the torchlight. Her expression stayed unreadable — half awe, half mourning.
She murmured, more to herself than anyone else:
“Divine light or not… even gods bleed here.”

Varun, lounging casually near the barred door, crossed his arms and smirked, his tone light but sincere:
“Well, looks like we just got promoted to divine errand boys, huh?”

His words earned a few tired chuckles — even Dovmont’s lips twitched with something close to a smile.

But Taras didn’t laugh. His gaze never left his son. There was pride there, yes — but fear too.
“Andry… if that light truly lives in you, then you can’t die here. You understand? You have to live. For your family in Pskov… and your new one in Novgorod.”

Andry met his father’s eyes. No bravado. No defiance. Just quiet acceptance — the stillness of someone who had already seen death and learned to keep walking.

Andry (softly, resolute):
“Then I’ll light the way.”

Varun cleared his throat, the tone in his voice changing — more serious now, his usual grin replaced by focus.

Varun:
“There’s something else everyone here needs to know.”

All eyes turned toward him — even Rusalka’s, sharp and wary.
“The Guardian of Pskov has appeared in the city. My friends and I — along with Ruslan — faced his trials… and survived. The Guardian Simargl stands with Pskov now.”

The prisoners froze — then the room erupted. Gasps, murmurs, cries of disbelief turned into awe. Hope doubled, burned brighter. The divine had not forsaken them — it had multiplied.

Dovmont (bowing deeply):
“Thank you… young hero. And you, young lady.”
He straightened, voice heavy with emotion but steady.
“You’ve not only rekindled our faith — you’ve chosen to fight for us. On behalf of this city, I offer my sincerest gratitude. You are no longer strangers to Pskov. From this day, you are its friends — its kin.”

One by one, the prisoners followed his bow — merchants, smiths, veterans, scholars — even Andry.
Rusalka nodded respectfully, her expression softening.

Varun, however, looked utterly overwhelmed. He scratched the back of his head, smiling awkwardly.
“Alright, alright, enough with the praise already. How about we get out of this lovely dungeon, huh? I’ve got friends to save.”

Laughter broke through the heaviness — small, honest, human. Even Rusalka chuckled quietly, which sent Varun straight into seven heavens.

He couldn’t help grinning wider, though part of him turned inward — remembering Avi’s words. Each of the seven had lost an emotion.
Varun had finally realized what his was.
He’d lost his self-doubt.

Most would call that a blessing. But Varun knew better. Without it, he charged forward without hesitation — too fast, too reckless, too certain. Yet looking around — at Rusalka’s faint smile, at Andry’s trembling resolve, at the fire in Dovmont’s eyes — he felt, for the first time, that he wasn’t alone in his madness.

He had comrades. Friends. People worth standing beside — and fighting for.

The torches flickered as boots scraped stone and chains fell from wrists. The air had shifted — no longer heavy with despair but alive with a fragile, dangerous hope.

Andry (resolute):
“It’s time to leave this place, everyone.”

Dovmont (commanding, yet measured):
“Everyone, prepare yourselves. We storm out on my signal.”
He turned toward the two unfamiliar faces — the outsiders who had given Pskov back its heartbeat.
“Young lady, young hero… may I know your names?”

Rusalka (short, crisp, but respectful):
“Rusalka. Just Rusalka.”

Varun (grinning, casual confidence):
“Call me Varun. I’ve got two other friends — Avi and Yudhir — they’re with the Guardian right now.”

Rusalka:
“Then let’s not waste time. The injured will stay in the Temple of Rod — Ruslan’s guarding them.”

Andry:
“Uncle… please take Dad and the others there. I’ll go with Varun and help the Guardian.”

Taras (worried):
“But you’re still recovering, son—”

Dovmont (chuckling, with a grizzled calm):
“Don’t fret, Taras. The boy’s forged from the same fire as you. Stronger now — and not alone anymore.”

Taras (sighing, but smiling):
“Alright… but you come back safe. Ruslan and I will be waiting.”

Varun (grinning, gesturing to the exit):
“Alright, folks — follow me. Try not to trip on any unconscious Novgorod soldiers.”

The prisoners exchanged glances — half disbelief, half adrenaline — and began to follow. As they ascended the narrow stone steps, the light grew brighter, the smell of smoke sharper.
When they reached the upper floor, jaws dropped.

Dozens of Novgorod soldiers — the garrison’s elite — lay sprawled across the floor, groaning or completely unconscious. Helmets cracked, weapons scattered like fallen dominoes.

Dovmont (astonished):
“By Rod… you three did this?”

Andry (smirking faintly):
“Wait till you see outside.”

They emerged into the cold sunlight of the courtyard — and the sight froze every breath in their throats. Nearly fifty soldiers lay strewn across the cobblestones, as if a storm had ripped through the garrison and left only silence in its wake.

A young blacksmith, face still smeared with soot, whispered in awe:
“Holy Rod… what happened here? Did the Guardian do this?”

Andry (grinning):
“No… this was all Varun.”

The crowd turned to him, wide-eyed. Murmurs of disbelief rippled through the freed prisoners.
A boy barely out of his teens — who fought like a tempest?

Varun (rubbing his neck awkwardly):
“Alright, alright, enough staring. I didn’t do it alone. Rusalka and Andry took out their share — I just cleaned up the leftovers.”

A few chuckles rippled through the group. Even Rusalka allowed herself a tiny smile — rare, genuine. She had always pegged Varun as reckless and loud, but beneath the grin, she saw it now — quiet strength and a strange maturity shaped by loss.

Rusalka (thoughtfully):
“I have one question. Why haven’t we encountered Gabriel yet?”

Varun blinked.
Varun (sudden realization):
“Where is that guy? How’d I forget that guy ?”

Andry (grim smile):
“There’s only one place he’d be right now…”

A silence fell.
Dovmont (nodding gravely):
“The Rosgvard Guard Commander of Novgorod — Boris Rykov himself — has arrived.”

That name alone carried weight. The freed prisoners now filled with hope; even the air seemed to lighten around them.

Taras (firm, resolute):
“Then we move. Timothy, get the civilians to the Temple. Andry, Rusalka, Varun — go. Help the Guardian and others.”

Andry (nodding, steady):
“Yes, Father. I’ll come back — with all of them.”

Varun gave a playful salute.
Varun:
“Let’s raise some hell, shall we?”

Rusalka’s blade shimmered faintly in the sunlight, its seaweed patterns rippling like waves in battle.
Rusalka (calmly):
“Then we march.”

The prisoners — no, the citizens of Pskov — parted for the three as they passed through the gates. The cold wind carried the smell of ash and divine light. Behind them, Dovmont and Taras led their people toward the Temple, while ahead, the heroes strode into the burning heart of the city — toward the Guardian, toward the monster that waited, and toward the battle that would decide Pskov’s soul.

The northern gate of Pskov — once a symbol of pride, now a monument of tragedy.
Banners of Novgorod faced each other in quiet defiance across the blood-soaked snow.
The Red Army stood within the gates — their crimson insignias gleaming like wounds under the pale winter sun. At their head towered General Gabriel Volkov, the Warlord of Novgorod, his expression carved from stone and doctrine.

Beyond the gates stood another Novgorodian army — not enemies by birth, but by conscience.
The Rosgvard, their ranks tight and disciplined, steel polished but hearts heavy. Leading them was Guard Commander Boris Rykov, his long coat billowing like a banner of reason amid a storm of madness.

Two brothers-in-arms, once united under one flag.
Now, standing on opposite sides of a broken faith.
Between them — the ruins of Pskov, still burning.

Boris stepped forward alone, boots crunching against the frost. The wind carried the scent of ash and iron. His eyes, sharp but weary, met Gabriel’s across the threshold.

Boris (voice firm, pleading beneath its weight):
“General Gabriel… enough. This siege has gone far beyond reason. You’ve already avenged Novgorod’s dead — what remains now is but slaughter. The civilians inside… they are not soldiers. Many are our own kin — Novgorodian by blood, Poskovian by soil. My nephews live there. How much longer will you let this madness burn?”

Gabriel’s gauntleted hand tightened on his sword hilt. The flicker of doubt in his eyes was smothered by duty before it could take form.

Gabriel (coldly, each word measured):
“Guard Commander Rykov… your sentiment is noble, but misplaced. The Council approved Mayor Alexander’s directive. Mayor Alexander has given a direct order — to secure Pskov entirely under Novgorod’s control. No exceptions. No delays. I am a soldier of the Red Army, not a philosopher. I follow command, not conscience.”
He raised his voice so that even the back lines could hear.
“This is not vengeance, Commander. It’s unification — by fire, if necessary.”

Boris’s jaw tightened. His voice lowered — calm, but trembling with restrained anger.

Boris:
“You call this unification? You’ve turned brother against brother, Gabriel. You speak of order, but you’ve lost sight of justice. There’s no honor in killing the unarmed. You know this siege was built on a lie. You know there was no proof that Pskov caused the blast at City Hall.”
He took another step forward, his hand hovering over his blade.
“As Rosgvard’s Commander, it’s my duty to protect the innocent. Even if that means standing against my own.”

The two commanders stood face to face — the old warrior’s compassion against the younger general’s iron will. Their soldiers watched in silence, the tension thick enough to break steel.

Gabriel exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing.

Gabriel (grimly):
“I’ll say this once, Boris. Take your men, return to Novgorod, and I’ll pretend this insubordination never happened. I’ve no wish to bury another of our own. You’ve already lost Zolotnikov. Must we add Rykov to the list?”

Boris’s gaze sharpened, his usual humor gone, replaced by a resolve that could crack the heavens.

Boris (grim smile):
“You’ve changed, old friend. Once, you fought to protect the people — not to rule them.”

Gabriel raised his massive rectangular shield, its surface engraved with the sigil of the Red Army, now glowing faint crimson. The faint whine of the Zhivava core inside it pulsed like a living heart.

Gabriel (steady):
“I protect Novgorod by obeying Novgorod. That’s what makes us soldiers.”

Boris:
“And that’s what makes me human.”

Boris (quietly, almost to himself):
“Mikhail fought for honor. I’ll fight for mercy.”
Then, louder — voice rising like thunder rolling across the snowy plain:
“You say you fight for Novgorod’s glory, Gabriel… but I fight for its soul.”

Gabriel’s patience finally snapped.
He held his shield towards Rykov, and with a motion sharp as command itself, roared:

Gabriel:
“Vo Slavu Novgoroda! (For the Glory of Novgorod!)”

The Red Army behind him echoed in unison, their chant shaking the gate’s very stones.

Boris turned back to his own men — his voice clear, proud, carrying the weight of every fallen soul from Pskov to Novgorod.

Boris (raising his blade high):
“Za Narod i Pravdu! (For the People and the Truth!)”

The Rosgvard roared back — not as conquerors, but as defenders.
The echo of both armies collided before the steel did.

Then, like thunder answering thunder, both sides charged.
Steel met steel beneath the shattered banners of Novgorod.
The gate of Pskov became a storm of brothers at war — a clash not of nations, but of beliefs.

And above them, from the east, the ground began to tremble…
The first sign that something far greater — and far older — was about to awaken.

Scene 2 :  Tree Giant 's terror

The clash at the northern gate raged like a storm given form.
Red Army and Rosgvard locked in brutal combat — brothers shouting war cries in the same tongue, bleeding on the same soil. Swords clanged, gunfire cracked, and banners burned in the cold wind.

Gabriel led his phalanx forward, shield wall gleaming like a moving fortress. Boris met it head-on, his gauntlets colliding with the shields in bursts of blue fire. Each punch from him shattered lines, every counter from Gabriel’s shield threw soldiers flying like straw.

They moved like opposing forces of nature — Boris the storm, Gabriel the mountain.

When their eyes met again in the chaos, they clashed directly — gauntlet versus shield.
Metal rang like thunder. Zhivava clashed with Zhivava. The ground cracked beneath their feet.

Gabriel (straining):
“Stand down, Boris! You’re making yourself an enemy of Novgorod!”

Boris (gritting his teeth):
“I’d rather be your enemy than the executioner of my own people!”

Gabriel swung his shield in a wide arc, releasing a kinetic pulse that sent Boris sliding back across the dirt — but Boris recovered instantly, planting his boots deep and slamming both fists together. The shockwave rippled outward, sending Red Army soldiers sprawling.

Both men stood amidst the dust and confusion, panting — equals, but ideologically divided beyond reconciliation.

And then — the ground trembled.
Once.
Twice.
A rumble, deep and unnatural, rippled through the battlefield — like the city itself had begun to breathe.

The battlefield froze as a deep rumble echoed from the east.
Even through the city walls, they could see the treeline convulsing, a towering silhouette rising behind the skyline — a massive creature of wood and earth, its roar shaking heaven and stone alike.

Soldiers on both sides paused.
Boris halted mid-swing, his instincts honed from decades of war screaming “This is not man’s doing.”

Boris (gritting his teeth):
“What in Rod’s name…?”

A Red Army lieutenant shouted from behind Gabriel:
“General! The eastern quarter — a forest— it’s moving!”

Gabriel turned sharply. “Moving?”
Then he saw it — the line of trees beyond the city walls swaying against the wind.
No — not swaying. Marching.

Gabriel (lowering his shield slightly):
“That’s… not one of ours.”

For a brief, unspoken moment — the battle between brothers-in-arms halted. Soldiers on both sides turned to face the monstrous form emerging from the eastern quarter.

The Tree Giant had awakened.
And the war for Pskov had just changed.

Roots the size of siege towers tore through stone and steel.
An enormous silhouette rose from the mist beyond the eastern horizon — a shape like a mountain given life, its bark blackened, veins glowing faintly with green light. The Tree Giant, long thought myth, awakened by pain and imbalance, had come forth.

Its roar rolled across Pskov like the cry of the world’s beginning.
The earth cracked beneath its weight. Birds scattered. Rivers trembled.

Boris’s men looked on in awe; some fell to their knees, muttering prayers to Rod.
The Red Army lines wavered — discipline shaken by primal fear.

Gabriel (shouting, trying to rally):
“Hold your ground! It’s a construct — not a god!”

But even his command faltered as the creature’s shadow fell over the city walls, blotting out the sky. The giant’s hollow eyes glowed like dying embers — sorrowful, ancient, and filled with wrath.

Meanwhile, in the South
Varun, Rusalka, and Andry emerged from the garrison just as the tremor reached them.
The rivers of Pskov surged, rising unnaturally, their currents reversing for a heartbeat.

Rusalka (staring at the waves):
“This energy… it’s alive. The land itself is weeping.”

Andry clenched his fists, his chest glowing faintly — the remnant of Alkonost’s Zhivava responding to the tremor.
Andry (gritting): “Something’s calling… from the east.”

Varun tilted his head, half in awe, half in disbelief.
Varun: “Please tell me that’s not another trial.”

Rusalka’s expression darkened. “It’s not a trial. It’s judgment.”

Varun glanced at the others — their exhaustion, their wounds — then grinned despite it.
“Alright. Round two, then.”

He looked at Andry and Rusalka. “Let’s go save the idiots who’re saving the world.”

The sacred halls shook as the tremor hit. Dust rained from ancient carvings.
Priests and civilians cried out in fear, while Ruslan Petrovik stood at the temple steps, watching the horizon blaze with unnatural light. The Guardian’s blessing within him pulsed in response — faint but calling.

Ruslan (quietly, to himself):
“Where this tree giant cam from ?…”

The eastern side of Pskov burned with an eerie green glow.
The forest beyond the walls had changed — every branch, every root, every leaf pulsed with unnatural life. The air was thick with Zhivava gone wild.

Avi stood with his Ice Claymore in hand, the blade reflecting shards of blue-white light that cut through the haze. Yudhir’s aura flared beside him, his runic tattoos faintly alive beneath torn sleeves. Between them stood Simargl, the guardian, wings spread wide, his divine presence pressing back against the corruption that rolled like a tide from the trees.

The monstrous aura of the Tree Giant dwarfed the very soul of Pskov. Its presence blotted out the skyline — the fortress walls, once symbols of endurance, now barely reached its shoulders. The corrupted Zhivava radiating from its core pulsed like an open wound across the city, poisoning the air itself. Were it not for Simargl’s divine resonance pressing back against the corruption, the entire city would have already fallen under its influence.

The giant no longer obeyed anyone — not even Ostap, whose body hung motionless within the creature’s chest, slowly being absorbed into its bark-like flesh.

A guttural roar erupted from the colossus, shaking the heavens. It wasn’t just sound — it was agony, rage, and loss interwoven into a single, unnatural cry.

The Tree Giant lumbered forward, its bark cracking like thunder. Roots the width of towers tore through homes, plazas, and citadels alike. The faint, ghostly blue glow from its chest flickered like a dying heartbeat — Ostap’s Zhivava, trapped within, fighting in vain to resist the corruption consuming him.

Before it stood Avi, his breath visible in the chilled air, frost gathering on his ice-forged claymore. His stance calm yet crackling with restrained fury. Beside him, Yudhir’s aviator jacket shimmered with streaks of storm-grey energy, like a cyclone ready to wreck havoc.

Behind them loomed Simargl, the Guardian of Pskov — a lupine specter wreathed in silver-white flame. His wings, vast and radiant, swept outward like burning constellations.

Simargl (roaring, divine and furious):
“False vegetation… abomination of soil and soul — unhand my child of Pskov!”

The Tree Giant did not heed the command. It only answered with another roar — primal, maddened, despairing. Vines burst from its arms, slamming into towers and dragging screaming soldiers into the forest it had spawned. The ground itself pulsed with its heartbeat, spreading corruption with each tremor.

And high above — beyond the reach of mortal eyes — Bezlik watched.

Perched upon the ruined spire of a half-collapsed church, his presence was a contradiction. Light refused to touch him; rain curved away from his form. Even Simargl’s divine aura seemed to skip over him, as though reality itself denied his existence.

To others, he was nothing.
To him, everything was visible.

Bezlik (calmly, almost intrigued):
“Such crude craftsmanship… attempting once again to fuse Zhivava with root matter. The General’s obsession remains his own undoing.”

He tilted his head slightly as the giant’s arm swept through an entire block of buildings, the shockwave reaching even his perch.

Bezlik (soft chuckle):
“The General’s arrogance always outgrows his control. And now… the core burns unstable. How poetic — to lose a vessel and a city in the same breath.”

His gaze shifted downward toward Avi, Yudhir, and Simargl, the three small figures standing firm against the impossible.

Bezlik (in a whisper, voice thinning to curiosity):
“So these are the chosen heirs of Simargl’s flame… Let’s see how long before they’re devoured by it.”

Then, a faint vibration at his wrist. His communication device flickered to life, the static clearing to reveal a voice both cold and commanding.

Kikimora:
“Bezlik… stand down. It was General Poludnitsa who engaged Simargl. You will not interfere. Observe. Record. Nothing more. Do you understand?”

Bezlik:
“Yes… Mistress.”

The line went silent, the final words tinged with an unease even he noticed. If Kikimora herself feared entangling with Poludnitsa, then this conflict had already spiraled far beyond expectation.

Bezlik lowered his communicator, the faint echo of the Tree Giant’s roar rippling through the smoldering ruins below.

Bezlik (quietly, almost reverent):
“Then I shall bear witness… to another god’s undoing.”

And so he stood — unseen, untouchable — as the battle between Guardian and corruption unfolded below, a silent observer to the storm about to consume Pskov.

The Tree Giant roared and hurled entire houses, towers, and slabs of stone toward the defenders. Streets that once echoed with life now turned into a storm of flying ruins.

Avi stepped forward, bracing himself against the shockwave. He swung his ice-forged claymore in wide, deliberate arcs — each strike unleashing a wave of freezing wind that shattered the incoming rubble midair. The fragments glittered like falling stars before disintegrating into frost.

Beside him, Yudhir raised his hand, eyes glowing with stormlight. A swirling tornado of wind formed around them — catching the debris Avi couldn’t reach, spinning it faster and faster before hurling it back toward the giant with devastating force. The frozen boulders struck its bark-covered chest, cracking it open in splinters of blackened sap.

The Tree Giant staggered, its roar echoing across Pskov like a collapsing mountain. Its eyes flared with a sickly blue hue as the corruption within it surged. In fury, it tore chunks of the street from beneath its feet and began another barrage — faster, wilder, unrestrained.

The air became a battlefield of ice and wind — Avi’s frost cutting through the chaos, Yudhir’s gales twisting through the storm — and above them, Simargl’s spectral wings spread wide, shielding the two from the worst of the onslaught.

But the giant was not slowing down.
And with every roar, its corrupted heart pulsed brighter — Ostap’s trapped body glowing within, like a warning from the soul of Pskov itself.

Simargl’s voice thundered through the smoke and chaos, shaking the shattered forest that surrounded Pskov’s eastern district.
His spectral form towered above the ruins, wings unfurled like blazing banners of white fire.

Simargl (commanding, divine):
“My warriors… we must separate the child from this hideous husk. If the core remains bound, the city itself will fall to ruin!”

Below, Avi swung his greatsword in calm, precise motions, cutting through the barrage of rubble that rained from the giant’s arms. Shards of ice danced in the air, glowing faintly in the corrupted light.

Avi (steady, calm):
“I’ll bring Ostap back. I promised Ruslan I’d do everything in my power to bring him home.”

He glanced toward the giant’s chest — where Ostap’s motionless body pulsed within that blue light. The memory of Ruslan’s desperate eyes flashed in his mind.
Avi’s grip on his sword tightened, though no rage followed.
There was no fire left — only resolve.

Ever since the trials in Simargl’s realm, a realization came to his mind.
Just as Yudhir had lost his impatience, and Varun his self-doubt — Avi had lost his wrath.
That missing piece left a quiet ache inside him, a silence where fury once lived.
And yet, it was that same silence that gave him focus — a stillness sharp enough to cut through chaos itself.

Despite the emptiness gnawing at his heart, he stood firm.
To his allies, he was calm — almost serene. But those who faced him in battle soon learned that his calm was the calm before a storm that could level mountains.

Yudhir (grinning, wind swirling around him):
“I’ll back you up. So go on… Captain. Or do you prefer ‘Leader’ now?”

Avi (smiling faintly):
“Captain’s fine.”
He lifted his claymore, its edge glinting like frozen lightning.
“Dragon Fury — let’s rescue Ostap… and bring this monster down.”

Yudhir (stretching his arms, a gust coiling around him):
“Ready to take the skies.”

As Simargl’s wings flared, the battlefield trembled once more — the war between divine flame, corrupted nature, and human will about to ignite in full.