Just as he stepped forward once more, the ground beneath him cracked—splintering like a shattered mirror—and dropped him into a vortex of black and crimson fog.

He fell—but he did not scream.

Ruslan descended through the thick, swirling fog like a feather, surrounded by memories made heavy with despair. When he landed, it was on soft grass. No injuries. No wounds.

He blinked.

Around him was a small circular garden, nestled in the center of an endless void of darkness. Flowers of blue, violet, and soft white bloomed in a ring around the garden’s edge. A lone tree stood in the center, its leaves golden and rustling as if whispering ancient lullabies. The fog remained just beyond the garden, clawing at its edges but never entering.

It was… peaceful.

Strangely familiar.

He remembered this.
A picnic.
His father’s laughter.
His brothers arguing over bread.
A moment of sunlight that had lived rent-free in his heart all these years.

He smiled… and then steeled himself.

On the far end of the garden stood another door wreathed in fire, almost identical to the first. Its flames were brighter now. Waiting.

Ruslan (quietly):
“…Simargl, I promise… I’ll protect them. Not just the Regalia. Not just my city.”
“But also… your story.”

“You don’t have to carry the sorrow alone anymore.”

He stepped toward the flame.

And it parted like a curtain for him—welcoming the boy who had no power, no prophecy, but a heart strong enough to carry the pain of these godly beasts.

The light was blinding.

But he didn’t look away.

Scene 8 : The Guardian's Trial

The ruined sprawl of ancient Pskov lay before Avi, Yudhir, and Varun—cracked walls blackened by old wars, silence heavy with lingering scars. Ahead, Simargl lay wounded upon fractured stones, and before the beast stood a lone figure. They approached cautiously, heartbeats echoing in the still air. As Avi opened his mouth to speak, the figure turned: the remembered visage of a emperor himself.

In their minds, Simargl’s voice reverberated :

“Before me stands the First Emperor Peter I Petrov of Volgorin Empire—tall and resolute even in memory, clad in a midnight-blue tunic embroidered with frost-and-flame motifs, draped with a fur-lined mantle shimmering with his steadfast will. His steel-gray eyes once shone with both compassionate warmth and unyielding determination; his neatly trimmed beard and tied-back chestnut hair framed a face ever ready to lean into action. I recall the pulse of his mana in the etched bracers at his wrists, the quiet promise in his posture: he would ride into danger himself rather than ask others to suffer. He spoke plainly, yet inspired trust: a visionary who modernized his realm without abandoning its soul.”

The figure chuckled, a sound both familiar and distant.
Peter (smiling wryly): “Enough, Simargl—stop pulling my leg. I’m not so grand. Now I’m but a fragment of memory, a shadow of what I once was. You three must have been drawn here by the true Simargl’s summons into this recollection.”

Varun (eyes wide): “Wait—real Simargl? Are you both illusions? Are we… illusions?”
Yudhir (rolling his eyes, gently): “Relax, Varun. He means this is a memory playing out inside Simargl’s mind.”
Avi (nodding): “So you are the First Emperor, and this is the moment you entrusted the Regalia to Simargl?”

Peter’s smirk deepened.
Peter: “Exactly. This is when I handed the Regalia to Simargl to guard. With his aid, I forged this hidden realm where he could conceal and protect it. That’s where you first met him—then traveled here in spirit.”

Avi: “But why make the realm accessible only through Pskov’s back door? Surely you could place its gate elsewhere, unreachable.”
Yudhir: “I’m guessing you needed someone to open it—but why?”
Peter: “You see correctly. Only someone of my bloodline could unlock the gate and reach Simargl.”
Varun (connecting dots): “Descendants—so Ruslan and Ostap are of your line?”
Simargl (via mental echo): “Blood alone is not enough. One must awaken Rod’s Essence within. That trial is no small feat. We knew a descendant would arise, though sooner than expected.”
Peter: “And your arrival—and that of your friends—were unforeseen variables. Perhaps you hold keys to our greater design.”
Yudhir: “Which design? Could our goals align?”
Peter (shaking his head): “I cannot reveal more, or the plan collapses—and my brother Ivan and sister Sophia would be disappointed in me.”
Avi (grinning): “We’ll uncover it ourselves—what’s the fun otherwise? Any side effects to Rod’s Essence in Ruslan? Any hint for the trial?”
Simargl: “Care for the child: he is central to our scheme against the Betrayer of Volgorin. As for the trial: you must fight me.”
Varun (alarmed): “But you are wounded—this won’t be fair!”

At his words, Simargl’s wounds knit themselves shut by innate regeneration. The guardian rose, towering over the three, roaring skyward in excitement at the challenge. The memory of Peter faded from their midst, then materialized upon a throne fashioned from the ruined stones—bearing witness, judge, and silent guide.

Yudhir (grinning at Varun): “Avi, if Varun speaks out of turn to any powerful foe again, give him a good beating.”
Avi (calmly): “Happy to oblige.”
Varun (mock exasperated): “Why am I always the one getting beaten?”

They took their stances before Simargl. Peter, seated on the throne, lifted a hand to signal the battle’s start. Just then, a flaming door opened at the battlefield’s edge—and through it stepped Ruslan, watching as the duel began.

Battle poised on the brink, each heart steady in its own way: Avi’s calm resolve, Yudhir’s wry courage, Varun’s dramatic zeal—and Ruslan arriving to witness the trial that will shape their fate.

The battlefield was no longer a memory—it was a furnace.

The ancient ruins of Pskov groaned beneath the fury of battle, magma craters bubbling and hissing like the breath of a dragon. The sky was dimmed under falling fireballs—searing orbs of molten wrath hurled by Simargl, crashing like meteors and leaving trails of smoke across the heavens.

Each explosion reshaped the earth, crumbling stone into charred ash. The once-sacred land was now an infernal arena, forged in flame and trial.

Avi, Yudhir, and Varun moved like streaks of defiance. Avi’s calm precision showed even in chaos—he conjured single-person ice walls in a strategic circle around Simargl, shielding them from each fiery volley. Like ghosts, the trio darted in and out of cover, launching sneak attacks from all angles.

Simargl, though mighty, began to read their rhythm. With a guttural snarl, it stomped its paw down, channeling magma through the debris—superheating the battlefield. The ground beneath them shimmered, forcing them to leap atop the very ice walls they once used for cover.

**Simargl roared—**and with that roar, the earth quaked.

The sonic blast sent the three boys flying, their bodies crashing into the blackened rubble. Pain lanced through them—but their fire didn’t extinguish. They rose, bruised yet undeterred.

Varun extended his hand, calling upon the storm inside. Water erupted, drenching the scorched field. Yudhir raised his arm skyward, shaping wind around the deluge, crafting a spinning whirlpool.

Avi’s eyes narrowed.

With surgical timing, he froze the vortex—encasing both water and Simargl in a glacial tomb. The beast snarled, encased in spiraling frost, struggling to shatter its bonds.

Without pause, Avi summoned a massive ice boulder overhead.

Crash! The impact split the frozen storm, driving Simargl to its knees. Wounded, yes—but not beaten. In a blink, its divine core flared, and the wounds mended.

Simargl rose.

Simargl (calmly, yet thunderous):
"The warm-up... is complete. I ask once: yield now, or face the true weight of my divine flame."

Avi (steady, eyes resolute):
"I don’t have all my memories… but the part I remember most clearly is this—my past self never stopped fighting for his friends."
"So don’t mistake my calm for surrender. I’ll keep fighting until I fall."

Varun (wiping blood from his brow, grinning):
"Still got plenty of juice left in me! C’mon, let’s finish this trial and go home heroes!"

Yudhir (focused, raising his hand):
"I’ve calculated the next move. Stay sharp—this plan needs precision from all of us."

On the battlefield's edge, a silent observer watched with folded arms.

Peter I Petrov, the First Emperor of Volgorin, his spectral form seated like a monarch of memory upon a throne sculpted from the ruins themselves. His eyes—steel grey and sorrowful—watched the battle, but his gaze now turned toward the trembling figure beside him.

Ruslan stood frozen—equal parts awe and confusion. His fists clenched. His heart raced.

Ruslan:
"Who... who are you? And why is Simargl fighting them like this?"

Peter (nodding, calm):
"I am Peter I Petrov. The First Emperor of Volgorin. And, more importantly, I am your ancestor."

Ruslan (shocked):
"Wh—What?! I’m from the royal bloodline…?! But… the Romanovs were wiped out, weren’t they? And the Red Winter took over. And… and in the scrolls—it said you gave the Regalias to the founders of the City-States. Then why does Simargl have it…?"

Peter (with a gentle laugh):
"You’re sharper than you look. The Regalia is with Simargl because he is the true founder of this city. The stories are shadows of truth, my child. Trust in this."

Ruslan (pleading):
"But I want to help! I don’t want to just stand here. I want to save my home… Why are you stopping me?!"

Peter’s expression grew somber—like a father passing down final words.

Peter:
"Because your trial… is different."
"Tell me, Ruslan… my descendant… if Simargl ever goes berserk again—like in the memory you witnessed—will you be the one to save him?"

Those words dug deep. Ruslan recalled his brother Ostap—once noble, now a cursed tree-creature… His hands trembled. His heart ached.

He closed his eyes and made a choice.

Ruslan (tears forming):
"I want to save him. I want to save Simargl… my brother… everyone I love. I’m not as brave or strong as the others—but I’ll carry what I must. I promise you, I will save them."

Peter smiled—one of quiet pride.

Peter (softly):
"Spoken like one of my blood. You carry my brother Ivan’s heart… the heart of one who never surrendered to darkness."

The battlefield exploded in motion.

Simargl summoned the Volkazhars—twisted firebeasts with glowing maws and jagged claws. They rushed the trio, snarling.

Avi launched an ice pillar from beneath Simargl, uppercutting its jaw. The beast reeled, stumbling.

Yudhir called to the skies, conjuring a violent typhoon, while Varun drowned the battlefield in a massive tidal wave, sweeping away the minions.

Wind and water twisted into a storm. Avi completed the triad—freezing the maelstrom into a prison of ice. Simargl, caught and disoriented, readied for the final strike.

A massive boulder of ice dropped from above. Simargl shattered it with its claws.

But something was wrong.

It was too light.

Too easy.

And then—Avi burst forth from the shards.

His eyes were cold as winter steel. His body coated in frost. His fist, a comet of freezing mana.

CRACK!
A punch to the beast's chest. Simargl staggered—then fell.

The well of ice rose around him. Water surged in. Winds howled, blinding him. Simargl tried to rise—then saw Avi, calm and silent, standing at the rim.

He leapt.

A single punch—water turned to ice upon impact—froze the divine beast solid. Simargl was sealed in a monolithic pillar of ice, radiant and unmoving.

Silence fell.

The battle was over.

The trio collapsed, breathless and victorious.

Avi (smiling faintly, exhausted):
"Maybe I went a bit overboard… but hey, at least I looked good doing it."

Varun (laughing):
"We did it!! That’s the power of never giving up, baby!"

Yudhir (nodding, peaceful):
"We’re a good team. Everyone played their role. But today… Avi was the star."

Varun:
"HELL YEAH! That was insane!"

Ruslan (running over, joyful):
"You did it! You really did it! Big bro, you’ve gotta teach me how to fight like that!"

Avi (ruffling his hair):
"One step at a time, kid. But remember this—your heart, your honesty… that’s your real strength. Never let it go."

Simargl stepped forth, free again. Peter stood beside him.

Avi:
"So… is it time to leave? Kinda wish this was all real."

Simargl (grinning):
"My real self is even stronger. I hope you’re ready for the next round."

Varun (panic):
"Wait, what?! This wasn’t even real?!"

Yudhir (placing a hand on his shoulder):
"But now we know how to win. That’s the experience we need most."

Ruslan:
"Will I… will I be strong enough to save you?"

Simargl (warmly):
"You already are."

Peter looked to the sky, speaking not just to Ruslan—but to history itself.

Peter (softly):
"There is no crown heavier than one forged by death and memory. A man does not live to escape death—he lives to defeat oblivion. And only through duty, sacrifice, and vision… can a soul echo beyond the silence of the grave."

Simargl stepped forward. A final roar shattered the memory realm.

A blinding white light swallowed the world.

In its final moments, the figures of Simargl and Peter stood still—like gods etched in time—as the world faded to white.

And the heroes… passed out, their hearts forever changed.