Scene 3 : Water Vs Ice ?

The ground trembled with every clash—raw echoes of two fates colliding beneath the twilight sky.

Avikarh and the mysterious boy—Varunesh—were locked in a furious dance of fists and instincts. Their movements weaved arcs through the swirling mist, rippling the air around them. Sparks cracked with each strike, shock waves rippling across the stony terrain. A single sweep of Varunesh’s leg tore up a shallow trench in the ground. Avikarh countered with a sweeping palm that bent the wind itself to his defense.

It was beautiful.
And terrifying.

Every soldier had stopped what they were doing. Eyes wide. Lips dry. Hearts pounding.
They weren’t watching a fight.
They were witnessing two forces of nature testing the boundaries of each other’s soul.

General Gabriel stood unmoved at the edge of the chaos. Arms crossed. A faint smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. His crimson cape fluttered in the gusts made by their battle, yet he himself was untouched—stone-like and calculating.

Ruslan, clutching Ostap in his arms, crouched near the ancient wall. His eyes flitted nervously between the raging battle and the massive sealed gate. Despite his fear, his fingers traced the strange glowing runes carved along its borders.

Ancient script… forgotten patterns…
But not to him.

“I—I can read these,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “They’re in the old tongue. But I need time…”

He looked up at the chaos.

"Bro! I need some time, hold them back!"

Avikarh, eyes still locked with Varunesh’s, shifted slightly and deflected an incoming roundhouse kick with the back of his forearm. His calm voice carried back like a stone skipping over still water.

“Roger that. I’ll keep them at bay. You do what you need to do.”

His words weren’t shouted.
They didn’t need to be.

He stood like a mountain that had chosen not to fall.
Even as Varunesh intensified.

The boy’s expression remained blank. No anger, no hatred. Just obedience. His movements grew sharper—there was water in his rhythm now. A flow like streams crashing against rocks—gentle until it broke you. Every step, every motion seemed to echo with tides held just barely in check.

Avikarh could feel it—that same energy.

The calm before a monsoon.

“General,” one soldier whispered in awe, “should we assist?”

But Gabriel raised a single gloved hand.

“No. Let him.”
His voice was low, smooth, filled with silent pride.

“I want to see what happens when that boy stops holding back.”

He turned slightly and addressed his fighter.

“My slave… I allow you to use your magic.”

That was all it took.

The temperature dropped.

A pale mist spiraled up from beneath Varunesh’s feet. His eyes—once quiet—now shimmered with a deeper hue, like the stillest water before a storm.

Avikarh’s brows lifted, not out of fear, but awareness.

“Magic…”

The wind swirled tighter.

Water vapor gathered around Varunesh’s outstretched palm—condensing into droplets that floated midair like glass beads. A sudden pulse of mana burst from him, and in an instant, a jet-like blade of pressurized water hissed from his hand toward Avikarh.

Avikarh dodged.

Just barely.

The blast sheared clean through a tree behind him—silent and deadly. It wasn’t water.
It was a pressure weapon.
Liquid made to cut.

And yet, Avikarh’s voice remained steady.

“You’re not aiming to kill, are you?” he said quietly, brushing a leaf off his shoulder. “Even now… something in you holds back.”

He blinked.
A memory stirred again. Not his. But his heart trembled with it.

Varunesh… why does your name feel like it was always waiting on my tongue?

The battle resumed.

Water curved like blades around Varunesh’s body, forming twin rings that spun faster than the eye could follow. Avikarh ducked, pivoted, and blocked—still refusing to strike back. He didn’t need to overpower. He needed to reach.

Even when he was cornered, pinned down by a barrage of slicing water crescents, Avikarh’s eyes remained focused—not on survival…

…but on the boy within the soldier.

“Who are you, Varunesh?” he murmured under his breath, arms raised in a cross block. “Why does it feel like I’m… supposed to know you?”

Varunesh didn’t answer.

But for the briefest flicker of a second…
A single drop of water from the storm clinging to his eyes shimmered.

And hesitated.

A hush fell over the battlefield.

Varunesh suddenly ceased his onslaught. The echo of his last water strike dissolved into mist. He stood still—too still—his breath barely audible. His hands fell loosely to his sides as he closed his eyes, channeling the mana within him like drawing water from a hidden spring.

A serene current pulsed from him. It wasn’t rage.
It wasn’t bloodlust.
It was the stillness of someone reconnecting to something deeper.

Avikarh’s brows narrowed. He took a few cautious steps back, instincts sharpening like frost on steel. The faint hum of magic curled in the air between them.

“Hey… Varun,” he said gently, the humor fading from his voice. “Looks like I’ll have to beat some sense into you after all.”

His voice wasn’t mocking. It carried a strange softness—like he wasn’t trying to win, but reach. And yet, even his calm had limits. He exhaled deeply and let the flow of mana rise from within him, wrapping around his frame like a silent blizzard answering a distant call.

Both boys stood still.

Eyes locked. Mana awakened.

Then—a moment of silence stretched to eternity.

And it broke.

With a roar like the crashing of ancestral tides, Varunesh raised his hand, and a serpent-like dragon burst from the spiral of his mana—a fluid, sinuous form of deep cerulean scales, glistening with droplets of raw pressure. The dragon coiled tightly around him before launching forward in a serpentine fury, jaws wide and magic pulsing in its fangs.

Avikarh met the oncoming storm with composed resolve.

His own mana flared to life, chilling the air around him. Frost bloomed in a ring beneath his feet. With a sweeping motion, he summoned his own icy dragon—a luminous creature forged from shards of glacial energy, wings of mist and talons like jagged crystal.

Both beasts—summoned reflections of their wielders—clashed midair with a deafening crack.

BOOM.

The shockwave exploded outward like a tidal wave.

Soldiers were thrown to the ground, tumbling like scattered dice. Even General Gabriel, unmoved and composed until now, took a cautious step back—his cape snapping behind him, his expression tightening with interest.

The summoned dragons fought like echoes of their creators. Water lashing against ice, pressure clashing with frostbite. Vapor swirled and roared into the sky, filling the battlefield with steam and roaring wind.

And from afar…

…a shadowy figure watched.

Seated high upon a gnarled tree limb, legs swinging lazily, the observer was cloaked in ink-like shadows, their features unreadable. Only their presence stirred the branches slightly, a hint of silent amusement on their unseen face.

The figure said nothing.
Only watched.
As if waiting.

Meanwhile…

Ruslan was crouched behind the ancient gate, still shielding Ostap with his arms, sweat trailing down his brow. The roaring winds of mana pushed against his small frame, but he clung to the wall, staring at the runic inscriptions.

“Come on… think,” he muttered. His fingers grazed the glowing glyphs, tracing patterns too ancient for most eyes to read.

Suddenly, a flicker of memory sparked behind his eyes.

That line…
“Pskov knows who passed and who will not return.”

His lips parted slightly, eyes widening.

“That inscription—on the old clock in our house…”

The words tumbled out in a hush.

“There was a code… I saw it as a child… right under the pendulum... it looked like gibberish then but—what if—”

He looked up at the gate again.

The runes glimmered softly in the dusk-light, waiting.
Watching.

Ruslan’s heart pounded louder.

“I think I know how to open it…”

As the battle raged behind him—frost and water colliding in blinding fury—Ruslan stayed crouched at the base of the gate, fingers trembling against the cold stone. His breath was shallow, heart racing. The ancient inscriptions glowed faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat just beneath the surface.

But then, something pulled at him.

Not from outside—but from deep within.

The storm faded for a moment in his ears.

And in that silence, a memory surfaced—
warm, vivid, bittersweet.