Ch 7 : Tree Giant Vs Pskov’s Heroes (Part - 4)

Scene 7 : Dilemma in the air

The Tree Giant was no longer the unstoppable calamity it once was.

Its massive frame trembled, the wound carved by Avi refusing to heal. The frozen destruction had gone too deep—too precise. No matter how desperately the corrupted roots writhed, regeneration simply wouldn’t answer its call.

Worse still, the cursed imitation of Simargl was breaking apart.

Avi’s earlier strike had erased nearly half of its existence—its left side reduced to nothingness, face torn away, limbs shattered beyond recovery. The Zhivava it had stolen—meant to empower it—was now being burned away desperately just to keep the Tree Giant from freezing solid.

It had nothing left for itself.

Crippled and incomplete, the fake Simargl dragged its ruined form back toward the Giant, seeking refuge—perhaps even reintegration.

That was the opening.

Yudhir didn’t hesitate.

A sharp grin crossed his face as his fists clenched, Zhivava surging in perfect alignment with intent.

Yudhir (low, dangerous):
“Ahh… don’t even think about running.”

His mind snapped into motion—precise, mechanical, merciless.

Wind gathered between his palms, not as a gust, but as a system. A sphere formed—air spinning violently within itself, layers upon layers of pressure folding inward. Faster. Denser. Sharper.

Then he compressed it.

Again.

And again.

Until the roaring storm was reduced to a sphere no larger than his fingertip—quiet, contained, and horrifyingly unstable.

Yudhir flicked his finger forward.

The moment the compressed wind touched the fake Simargl, the air collapsed inward.

There was no explosion.

There was no escape.

The sphere expanded just enough to engulf the creature—and then began to grind.

The fake beast didn’t scream.

It didn’t even resist.

It was swallowed whole, shredded from the inside by infinite blades of compressed wind, erased so completely that not even corrupted residue remained.

Silence followed.

Varun, still leaning on his weapon and struggling to steady his breath, glanced at Yudhir and snorted.

Varun (half-laughing, half-gasping):
“Dude… wasn’t that a bit brutal?”

A brief stillness settled over the battlefield.

Not peace—just disbelief.

Yudhir exhaled slowly, shaking out his hand as if he’d merely thrown a pebble instead of erasing a monster from existence. He glanced at Varun, one eyebrow lifting.

Yudhir (deadpan):
“Brutal? I thought I was being gentle.”

Varun barked out a laugh, immediately regretting it as his ribs protested.

Varun:
“Yeah, sure. Remind me never to stand on the wrong side of your mood swings.”

Avi watched the shredded remains of the fake Simargl dissolve into nothing, frost still crackling faintly along the air where it had vanished. There was surprise in his eyes—but no confusion.

Of course.
Quick calculation. Perfect timing. Minimal waste.

That was Yudhir.

A strategist who didn’t wait for permission from fate.

Rusalka sheathed her weapon with a satisfied click, lips curling into a smug half-smile—not at the attack itself, but at Avi standing there again, alive and very much himself. Still, her gaze drifted between the three boys, amusement flickering in her eyes.

So this is the kind of madness they run on, huh?

Ruslan, on the other hand, was practically vibrating.

Ruslan (eyes shining):
“That was amazing! What’s it called? You have a name for it, right? You can’t do something like that without naming it!”

Andry stared at the space where the creature had been, speechless for once. His grip tightened around his weapon, awe written plainly across his face.

Andry (quietly):
“…He crushed a storm into his finger.”

High above them, Simargl remained still, wings partially folded, his flame dim but steady as he kept watch. His Zhivava was low, his body heavy—but his eyes burned with quiet approval.

They’re growing.
Faster than even I expected.

The moment shattered.

The Tree Giant roared.

Roots convulsed violently as it forced energy into its ruined chest, bark splitting, frost hissing as it tried to halt the spreading ice. The wound refused to close. The pain only fed its fury.

The ground trembled.

The Giant straightened, eyes blazing with hatred, every remaining vine bristling like drawn blades.

It was wounded.
Cornered.

And very, very angry.

Yudhir rolled his shoulders and looked back at the others, a sharp grin returning to his face.

Yudhir:
“Looks like introductions are over.”

The battlefield answered with a scream of splintering wood.

Avi’s gaze moved like a silent current across the battlefield.

Cracked stone. Frozen bark. Scorched roots.
Friends barely standing.
An enemy still breathing.

He inhaled once—slow, measured—and let the noise of the world fall away. The Tree Giant stood hunched in the distance, forcing stolen energy through shattered veins of wood and ice, its body creaking like a mountain on the verge of collapse. It was wounded, yes—but wounded beasts were the most dangerous.

Avi (calm, razor-sharp):
“All of us are low on energy. The enemy too.”
(pauses, eyes narrowing)
“This battle ends now—quick, powerful, precise. We need to save Ostap… and we need to do it soon.”

He turned slightly, already knowing who would answer.

Avi:
“So what’s the plan, strategist?”

Andry forced himself upright, teeth clenched as pain lanced through his side. His breath shook—not from fear, but from urgency.

Andry:
“To save my brother… we have to get close.”
(his voice hardens)
“There’s no other way.”

Yudhir folded his arms, fingers tapping against his sleeve as his mind raced through outcomes and failures alike. Wind stirred faintly around his boots, responding to his agitation.

Yudhir:
“And the moment we do, it’ll try to drain us again.”
(glances at the giant)
“We pushed it this far only because some of us stayed outside its reach.”

Ruslan stepped forward before anyone could stop him. His hands were trembling—not with weakness, but with restrained desperation.

Ruslan:
“Then tell us what to do, Big Bro Yudhir.”
(his voice cracks)
“I don’t want to watch my brother suffer anymore.”

Silence fell.

Heavy. Pressing.

No one here was at full strength. Bruises burned. Zhivava ran thin. Even the ruins around them felt unnaturally still—as though the city itself was holding its breath, waiting to see whether hope would stand… or shatter.

Simargl’s weakened form flickered faintly behind them, flames low but steady. His voice, though strained, carried warmth.

Simargl:
“I have faith in you, my heroes.”
A gentle pause.
“Even now… I know you will find a way.”

Rusalka tilted her head suddenly, eyes narrowing.

Rusalka:
“…Hey.”
(squints)
“Why’s the seaweed so quiet?”

Yudhir followed her gaze.

Varun stood apart from the others, arms crossed, staring at the Tree Giant with unsettling focus. His expression wasn’t blank—it was working.

Yudhir (grinning, deliberately loud):
“You mean Varun?”
(teasing)
“Wow. Nicknames already? You two getting close?”

Rusalka spun toward him instantly.

Rusalka:
“I AM NOT CLOSE TO HIM!!”

The tension snapped.

Laughter broke out—raw, unguarded, almost shocked at itself. Even in the shadow of annihilation, it felt human. Rusalka turned away sharply, cheeks burning, muttering something about idiots and poor timing.

Varun blinked, pulled out of his thoughts.

Varun (scratching his head):
“…Uh. What just happened?”
(glances around)
“What did I miss?”

Ruslan’s lips curled into a mischievous grin—dangerous in its own way.

Ruslan:
“Actually, Big Sis Rusalka was saying—”

Rusalka:
“RUSLAN!!”

Ruslan bolted toward Simargl, laughing as Rusalka chased him with murderous intent. Even Varun, unaware of the context, found himself smiling—something warm and unfamiliar stirring in his chest as he watched her.

Yudhir clapped once, sharp and commanding.

Yudhir:
“Alright. Comedy hour’s over.”
(turns to Varun)
“You looked like you found something. Did you?”

Varun nodded, seriousness settling back into his eyes.

Varun:
“Yeah.”
He gestured toward the giant.
“Avi, Ruslan, and Andry actually hurt it. Simargl could only stall—and that’s because his Zhivava was already drained.”

Yudhir:
“I know that part.”
(flatly)
“Give me the solution.”

Varun exhaled.

Varun:
“You and I hold it back. You’re fast enough. I can counter its reach.”
(counts on his fingers)
“Avi, Ruslan, and Andry go in for the rescue. Rusalka handles anything it spawns. Simargl rests.”

Yudhir frowned.

Yudhir:
“And the moment we engage… it absorbs our powers.”

Then—

His eyes sharpened.

Yudhir (quiet, precise):
“…Unless we attack together.”

Varun’s lips curved upward.

Varun:
“Exactly. One concentrated combo. One opening.”

From behind Simargl, Ruslan—half-pinned by Rusalka—shouted proudly:

Ruslan:
“Then the move’s name is STORM POINT!”

Varun chuckled.

Varun:
“Not bad, champ.”
(pauses)
“But let’s call it—
Wind Dragon Style: Storm Finger.”

Avi nodded once.

No debate. No hesitation.

Avi:
“Agreed.”
He gestured decisively.
“Strike Team: Yudhir, Varun.
Rear and Support: Rusalka.
Rescue Team: Me, Ruslan, Andry.”
(softens slightly, turning to Simargl)
“Guardian—rest.”

Simargl’s smile, though weary, was filled with pride.

Simargl:
“Return victorious, my heroes.”
“Save the child of the forest.”

They moved immediately—positions shifting with practiced trust, bodies acting before doubt could surface.

The Tree Giant roared, sensing danger.

But it was already too late.

The storm had not passed.

It had chosen its answer.

Scene 8 : Calamity of the nature

The Tree Giant suddenly stilled.

For the first time since its birth, it stopped roaring.

Its massive frame straightened, arms spreading wide—unnaturally wide—until it stood in a rigid, blasphemous stillness, like a grotesque effigy carved by madness itself. A slow, grinding creak echoed through the battlefield as its legs began to fuse together, bark and sinew knitting into a single colossal trunk that rooted itself deep into the ruined earth of Pskov.

The ground trembled.

Cracks raced outward from its base as corrupted roots erupted beneath the streets, slithering through stone and soil alike. They drank greedily—pulling Zhivava from the land itself, from broken shrines, from fallen soldiers, from every living thing that still clung to breath.

Above, its branches unfurled like a crown of thorns, scraping the sky. The air grew heavy. Oppressive. Zhivava was being siphoned directly from the atmosphere, drawn into the giant’s core in thick, spiraling currents of green and black light.

People across the city staggered.

Some fell to their knees.

The giant wasn’t just fighting them anymore.

It was feeding on Pskov.

Bezlik’s breath caught.

From the rooftop where he stood, half-hidden in nothingness, he felt it too—the sheer scale of the act. This wasn’t brute force. This was preparation. Conversion. A general’s contingency made flesh.

“…So that’s his answer,” Bezlik murmured, unease creeping into his usually detached tone. “If the city won’t fall… then become the city.”

Before the artificial forest could fully regenerate—before the revived roots could birth another horde—

Yudhir moved.

“Varun,” he said sharply, eyes locked on the transforming giant. “Now. Before it stabilizes.”

Varun didn’t hesitate.

They split instinctively, mirroring one another like seasoned veterans despite the exhaustion dragging at their limbs. Wind screamed around Yudhir’s arms as he compressed it—layer after layer folding inward, pressure screaming for release. At the same time, Varun drew water from the air and shattered ground, condensing it so tightly it shimmered between liquid and blade.

Two spheres formed.

One invisible, violent, and howling.

The other dense, gleaming, alive with crushing force.

Yudhir clenched his fist. “Dragon Style Combo—”

Varun stepped in beside him, teeth grit, eyes sharp. “—Hurricane Twin Point.”

They thrust forward together.

The spheres collided mid-flight—not exploding, but merging, spiraling into a singular drill of wind and water that screamed like a living beast. It tore through the air, ripping the corrupted branches apart before slamming into the giant’s torso.

The impact was catastrophic.

The trunk cracked.

A shockwave ripped outward, flattening the half-formed forest before it could rise. The giant let out a distorted howl—less rage now, more panic—as its absorption faltered, its flow disrupted violently.

Avi felt it instantly.

“There,” he said, eyes narrowing. “That’s our opening.”

But the giant wasn’t finished.

From the shattered roots, Zhivava surged again—coalescing into warped plant-hybrid monstrosities that clawed their way into being, shrieking as they charged.

And then—

A shield flew through the battlefield like judgment.

It spun with terrifying precision, ricocheting through the horde, cleaving beasts apart in a blinding arc before slamming back into a waiting hand.

Gabriel stepped forward through the dust, stance steady, shield locked in place.

At the same moment, the ground exploded.

Boris tore through the flank like a living siege weapon, Iron Flame Gauntlet blazing as he drove a straight-line punch that incinerated everything in its path—roots, monsters, corrupted earth—leaving nothing but molten scars behind.

For a heartbeat, the battlefield froze.

Ruslan stared, wide-eyed.

Rusalka stiffened, grip tightening on her blade.

Varun’s expression darkened instantly.

“…Him,” he growled, Zhivava flaring despite his exhaustion.

Yudhir didn’t lower his guard. “Don’t break formation.”

Andry, however, stepped forward—surprise flashing across his face before settling into recognition.

Boris glanced over, catching Andry’s gaze, and gave a short nod—no smile, no bravado. Just acknowledgment.

Gabriel, meanwhile, met the heroes’ eyes with something unreadable.

Bezlik watched it all unfold, fingers curling slightly at his side.

Soldiers once enemies. Children turned warriors. A Guardian weakened, yet standing.

“…This generation,” he whispered, something dangerously close to admiration slipping through. “They don’t wait for permission to become legends.”

The Tree Giant roared again—this time not in dominance, but fury tinged with fear.

Its transformation had been interrupted.

Its prey had regrouped.

And now—

The real rescue was about to begin.

Andry stepped forward instinctively, placing himself half a step ahead of the others. Despite the chaos still raging around them, his posture straightened—shoulders squared, chin lifted—not out of fear, but out of respect.

“That’s my uncle,” he said firmly, voice cutting through the noise.
“The Rosgvard Commander of Novgorod…
the Iron Flame Fist of Novgorod—
Boris Rykov.”

The name carried weight.

Even the soldiers nearby seemed to stand a little straighter.

Boris glanced sideways at Andry. For a fleeting moment, the brutal commander softened—just enough to acknowledge the boy who had once stood before him in chains and defiance. He gave a short nod. No flourish. No reassurance. Just trust earned the hard way.

Ruslan blinked.

“Uncle…?” he repeated, stunned.

His gaze darted between Andry and Boris, disbelief giving way to awe. This wasn’t how he had imagined family—this towering man of iron and fire, carved by war itself. Yet something about it made sense. The resolve. The refusal to kneel. The way Andry always stood back up no matter how hard the world struck him.

“So that’s our uncle…” Ruslan murmured, eyes shining with a mix of shock and admiration. “You never said he was… like that.”

Andry exhaled softly, almost a smile.
“Some people don’t look like family,” he said. “They become it.”

Varun didn’t relax around Gabriel. His jaw tightened, old anger simmering beneath the surface—but he held his tongue. For now.

The Tree Giant roared again, furious at the intrusion.

And Boris Rykov raised his gauntlet once more, flames coiling around his fist.

“Save the reunion,” he said gruffly. “We finish this first.”

All the forces rallied toward the unstable giant before it could fully mature into a calamity Pskov would remember as its final breath.
The horde of twisted, Zhivava-warped beasts continued to swell, but this time, the heroes were no longer alone.

Distrust toward Gabriel still lingered like a poison in the air—unspoken, sharp, and ready to flare—but the looming annihilation forced even sworn enemies to fight under the same sky.

Gabriel’s soldiers locked down the left flank, their formation tight and disciplined. Shields crashed forward, blades flashed, and his presence alone acted like a brutal command spell.
On the right, Boris’s men advanced like a moving furnace—controlled, relentless, devastating. Wherever the Iron Flame Gauntlet struck, the forest screamed and vanished.

Between these two fronts, our heroes surged forward, cutting through the artificial forest toward the giant that had now risen into a twisted, towering skyscraper of bark and sinew.

At its core—its heart—was Ostap.

That was the target.
That was the reason.

The forest fought back viciously.

Mutated beasts crawled out of roots, dropped from canopies, and burst from the ground itself. Rusalka moved like a living tide—fluid, ruthless—neutralizing the smaller creatures before they could even scream.

Above, Yudhir claimed the skies.

He spiraled upward, wind roaring around him, a dragon ruling his domain. Winged plant-creatures surged toward him, but they never reached him—caught instead in the violent cyclone he spun around his body. One by one, they were shredded into drifting leaves and ash.

On the ground, the battlefield flooded.

Varun’s water dragon serpents tore through the undergrowth, clearing a path for the rescue team. Roots snapped. Beasts drowned. The forest itself recoiled as if insulted.

Rusalka stayed close, finishing what escaped Varun’s grasp.

At the center of it all, Avi, Ruslan, and Andry advanced—the rescue team, moving fast, focused, unyielding. Avi led from the front.

Then—

The forest reacted.

As if anticipating them, massive roots surged upward, intertwining with the remains of fallen beasts to form a grotesque barrier—bone, bark, and sinew fused together to block their path.

Varun saw it instantly.

Varun (smirking):
“Hey, rescue team—need a hand? How about some surfing through the forest?”

Avi didn’t even hesitate.

Avi (grinning, already moving):
“Yeah. We’d love to.”

One of Varun’s water dragons smashed into the barrier, obliterating it in a roaring flood. At the same time, Avi shaped the rushing water into a wide, stable wave—his ice forming a massive surfboard beneath their feet.

The three of them rode the wave forward, tearing through the forest like a living spear.

In seconds, they burst out of the artificial woods and landed near the base of the colossal trunk.

Andry and Ruslan leapt free and sprinted toward the giant tree without looking back.

Avi remained behind.

The surfboard crystallized, reshaping in his hands—refining, sharpening—until it became a greatsword of ice, far more precise and elegant than before.

Avi smiled—not the grin of battle, but something quieter. Grounded.

Avi (softly, from the heart):
“It’s time to make an opening… for the reunion of three brothers.
Time to focus… as steady as ice… just like Mom told me.”

The giant felt it.

The tree shuddered.

Scars left by Avi’s earlier strikes pulsed faintly across its trunk, as if remembering pain. Among all its enemies, it recognized him as the greatest threat.

Roots tore free from the ground. Vines whipped through the air. Remaining beasts turned as one toward Avi.
The canopy spread wider, choking the sky, threatening to swallow all of Pskov.

The giant was ready to become a calamity.

But first—it would erase him.

Andry and Ruslan moved closer to the trunk, unnoticed.

They trusted Avi.

They knew he would draw everything onto himself.

Avi stepped forward alone.

He closed his eyes.

His breathing slowed. His stance shifted—not rushed, not rigid. His feet grounded themselves naturally, knees bent, spine aligned. The sword lowered slightly, angled—not aggressive, but coiled.

It wasn’t something he thought through.

His body remembered.

Movements flowed into place—stances echoing ancient forms, inspired by beasts and balance.
A subtle dragon-like coil entered his posture: grounded like the earth, fluid like water, poised like a predator about to strike.

The mind forgets.

But the body never does.

And as Avi opened his eyes, ice crept silently along the blade—cold, steady, patient.

The dragon son of ice was ready to move.

The giant struck first.

Roots surged toward Avi like spears, the ground itself betraying him. Vines lashed from above, and the trunk twisted, muscles of bark tightening as it prepared to crush him beneath sheer mass.

Avi didn’t move.

Not yet.

He exhaled slowly.

The battlefield noise dulled—not because it vanished, but because he let it pass. His grip on the ice greatsword loosened just enough to let the blade settle. Frost crept from the hilt, wrapping his arms, then his shoulders, not violently—deliberately.

His stance shifted.

Left foot forward, heel light. Right foot grounded, toes angled.
His shoulders aligned with the trunk, spine straight, chin lowered.

A dragon preparing—not to roar—but to pierce.

Avi whispered, barely audible even to himself:

“As steady as ice… enduring… unbroken.”

The roots struck.

At the last possible moment, Avi moved.

Not backward.

Forward.

He stepped into the attack, his blade rotating in a smooth arc. Ice spiraled outward, not exploding, but condensing, wrapping around the sword in layered rings—each rotation compressing Zhivava tighter and tighter.

The vines touched the frost and stopped.

Not frozen violently—arrested, as if time itself hesitated.

The giant reacted.

Its trunk pulsed, absorbing Zhivava from the earth and sky, bark thickening as it tried to overwhelm him with sheer regeneration.

That was the mistake.

Avi planted his back foot and lowered his center of gravity—the final step of the Dragon stance.

His eyes opened fully.

Clear. Calm. Ruthless.

Avi (voice steady, carrying):
“Dragon Sword Style—”

The ice around him collapsed inward, folding into the blade. The air screamed as temperature dropped instantly, the frost turning sharp, crystalline, perfect.

“—Glacial Heart Rend.”

He thrust.

Not a slash.

Not a swing.

A single, absolute thrust.

The sword didn’t just strike the trunk—it entered it, ice drilling forward like a living spear. A dragon-shaped surge of compressed frost erupted from the blade, boring through bark, Zhivava, and twisted flesh alike.

The trunk cracked open.

Not shattered—cleaved.

A circular opening formed, edges instantly frozen solid to prevent regeneration. Ice crawled inward, locking the surrounding fibers in place, silencing the giant’s attempt to heal.

The Tree Giant howled—not in rage—

—but in panic.

Its roots convulsed uselessly. Vines recoiled. The canopy trembled as if the forest itself had lost breath.

Inside the frozen wound, a faint glow pulsed.

Ostap.

Avi held the blade steady, muscles screaming, frost climbing up his arms.

Avi (without looking back):
“NOW!”

Andry didn’t hesitate.

Ruslan didn’t blink.

The two brothers sprinted toward the opening as the giant thrashed violently, trying—and failing—to close the wound.

Avi twisted the blade once more, reinforcing the ice seal.

Avi (through clenched teeth, calm but fierce):
“I’ll hold it.
Bring him back.”

The dragon of ice stood alone before a calamity—
and for the first time since its birth—

the Tree Giant knew fear.