The city below writhed in chaos. Cracked roads, collapsing homes—Pskov was tearing itself apart once more. Soldiers screamed as debris rained from shattered rooftops. And then—like a cruel omen—the massive statue of Simargl, guardian beast of the city, began to tremble… and collapse.

It didn’t fall from damage.

It was pulled down—by something below.

A jagged portal of searing white flame erupted beneath the base, opening like a divine maw. And from that blinding chasm… emerged Simargl himself, a vision of fury and divine majesty. His flaming mane whipped with every motion, molten runes glowing across his silver-furred body as he let out a roar that cracked the skies.

But he was not alone.

From behind the beast emerged a twisted silhouette, gnarled and pulsing, like a tree fused with flesh. Ostap, consumed by the same cursed force as in Ruslan’s memory, walked like a demon possessed—his face masked by bark, his eyes glowing with pain and rage.

The two figures clashed mid-air with godlike force, the shockwave leveling the remains of the square. Cracks split through Pskov like veins of judgment. The battle had begun, one not of mortals—but of divine relics awakened.

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. He recognized the portal. It was the same breach the boys had passed through to reach Simargl before.

He turned swiftly. “I’m going down. The troops need to regroup—now!”

Alexander didn’t answer. He stood frozen at the balcony, glass falling from his hand and shattering at his feet.

He sat down slowly, almost dazed… then reached for the communicator crystal with trembling fingers but excited.

“To my wellwisher…” he whispered, eyes wide with awe and madness.

“…It’s begun.”

Inside the great stone walls of the Temple of Rod, sanctuary had turned into sorrow.

The inner halls—once a refuge of prayer and community—now echoed with weeping, shouts, and whispered prayers. Priests moved frantically among the masses, their robes dragging across the worn wooden floor as they attempted to calm the growing storm of human despair.

Children clung to their mothers, faces red from crying. Elderly citizens sat slumped against pillars, whispering half-formed hymns. Men stared blankly at the cold stone, their hands trembling—once calloused with work, now useless in a conquered city. Smoke from incense coiled through the rafters, failing to mask the anxiety in the air.

Outside, the tremors had returned—louder, closer, shaking the walls like the wrath of Rod Himself. Dust trickled from the ceiling beams. The stone underfoot vibrated as if protesting against the violence just beyond the walls.

The Volkhvacharya, their Arkhiyeri, stood tall among them, his aged eyes calm but burdened with sorrow.

A young male priest rushed forward, voice filled with concern.
“O Arkhiyeri, you mustn’t venture outside. The soldiers could be waiting! If they capture you—”

The old priest raised his hand.
“I must,” he said with quiet finality. “I will not allow the people to suffer more than they already have. If my words might save even one soul from further pain, then I shall offer them freely—even if it costs me my own.”

A young female priest stepped forward, her eyes brimming with tears.
“Please… don’t speak like that. Without you, we will crumble. You are the heart of this temple, of our people. We cannot lose you too, Arkhiyeri.”

Another priest added desperately, “Then let me go instead. If there’s danger, I’ll face it. Please allow me this duty.”

The Arkhiyeri paused, voice trembling with emotion.
“You all are more than disciples… you are my family. I will not stand by and watch my children perish before their time.”

“Then let me go with protection,” the priest insisted. “We need someone… someone capable.”

The Arkhiyeri turned toward the gathered crowd. “Is there anyone who can stand beside him? Someone with strength… and purpose?”

A murmur passed through the people—then silence. A single figure stepped forward.

She was barely noticed before, sitting quietly with the others. But as she stood, her presence silenced the room. A pale-skinned maiden, hair flowing in waves of deep green seaweed, eyes dark as moonlit rivers. She wore scale-shaped armor the color of wet moss and salt-stained bronze. Her shoulders bore remnants of old barnacles, as if the sea itself had once tried to claim her. A flowing sash trailed behind her like a wave in still air, and at her back, a sword braided from hardened seaweed, humming faintly with ancient magic.

She did not speak. She only nodded once.

The young priest stared, awestruck. There was something… unworldly about her. Not frightening—but unfathomable.
The Arkhiyeri looked into her eyes, and though she said nothing, he understood.
“Then go. But return quickly. And if the world turns against you—run. Through the Fifth Light of the Creator Rod… may your path be lit beyond illusion.”

The heavy temple doors groaned open. And as they stepped out, the sacred silence was swallowed by the chaos of a world on fire.

Outside, the city was unrecognizable.

The priest and the seaweed maiden stepped onto broken stone steps, their feet crunching against rubble. The once-proud central square of Pskov lay in devastation. The grand statue of Simargl, which once stood tall like a divine protector, had collapsed—its carved wings shattered, its noble face split.

But it was no earthquake that had felled it.

A hole gaped beneath the ruins of the statue—a portal, dark and swirling, like the mouth of another world. And from it had emerged chaos incarnate.

The guardian beast, Simargl, stood in its full, divine glory—its silver fur streaked with battle, its eyes glowing with holy fire. Every roar it let loose shook the city to its foundations.

But opposite it stood something twisted. A humanoid tree, malformed and wretched, bark and sinew twisted into a monstrous shape. Vines slithered like veins, and its face—once perhaps human—was distorted by rage and madness.

The two collided, and each impact tore the air like thunder. Shockwaves cracked walls and flipped carts. Debris flew through the streets like shrapnel. Divine flame met cursed root, and the city trembled beneath them.

The priest dropped to his knees, overcome by awe.
“Rod preserve us… Simargl Itself fights for us!”

But the maiden’s face did not move. Her seaweed hair whipped in the wind as her eyes locked on the tree-beast. Something in her heart whispered otherwise. There was no victory in this fight—only tragedy. And in her silence, she knew the city’s fate still hung in the balance.

She turned to the priest, voice like water sliding over stone.
“Go back. Tell them to remain inside. Until I return.”

The priest hesitated. “But… you…”

She gave him a glance—quiet, calm, unwavering.

He saw it in her eyes then. She was not afraid.

He ran back toward the temple, heart racing—not out of fear, but awe.
She turned back toward the battle, her sword humming faintly behind her.

And as a bolt of divine light collided with a blast of cursed root, illuminating her seaweed hair against the broken sky—
—she walked forward.

Into a war that legends would never forget.

Scene 3 : Pskov's Heroes

The battle had reached its crescendo.

Across the shattered streets of Pskov, possessed Ostap, now fully consumed by the twisted force that had taken root in his soul, unleashed a barrage of corrupted nature. Wild vines tore through the ground like serpents from the underworld, bursting from cobblestones and broken wood, snaring anything in their path. Ancient roots, thick as tree trunks, curled around debris and clawed at the air, trying to bind the radiant form of Simargl in their grasp.

Simargl fought with the grim precision of a guardian divine. It did not flinch. With a swipe of its mighty paw, it tore through the encroaching vines like paper. Its claws left trails of embers with each blow. Then, from deep within its throat, a roar built—an infernal heat crackled in its maw.

A stream of searing flame burst forth, engulfing the tendrils in golden fire. The vines withered, turning to ash mid-air. Smoke rose, carrying the scent of burnt wood and something deeper—something unnatural. This wasn’t just a battle; it was an exorcism written in fire and fury.

But the battle wasn’t going unnoticed.

Simargl could feel the convergence. The ripples in the city’s air—others drawing near. Some hostile. Some unknown. All dangerous. It couldn’t afford to continue this destructive struggle any longer.

It had to end this.

Raising its head high, Simargl’s body glowed with radiant light—divine essence pulsing like a second heartbeat beneath its fur. It let out a roar, not just of fury, but of command. The very air trembled. The cursed vines recoiled for a brief moment. Ostap’s monstrous form halted mid-lunge, eyes wide with a flicker of hesitation.

In that fleeting silence, Simargl lunged.

Its paw, glowing with holy might, smashed into Ostap’s twisted body, hurling him across the air like a broken puppet. He collided with the ancient stone of the city’s outer fortress, the walls cracking and trembling under the force of the impact. Dust erupted like a dying breath from the fortress’s base.

Simargl did not move immediately. It stood still, chest rising and falling heavily, steam rising from its body. Its eyes scanned the surroundings.

No enemies in sight.

No soldiers. No spies. No eyes watching… not yet.

It turned toward the space near the Temple—its sacred ground. Its fur shimmered once more, then parted slightly at the chest, and from within that divine warmth, four unconscious boys emerged—Avi, Varun, Yudhir, and Ruslan—nestled and protected within the beast’s divine mantle during the battle.

They lay cradled on the stones, bruised but safe—witnesses of a divine trial, and survivors of a battle beyond mortals.

Simargl looked down at them for a brief moment. Its expression, though beastly, held a strange serenity—an ancient sorrow, perhaps, or pride. Then it turned its gaze once more toward Ostap’s broken form.

That last attack would not be enough.

The guardian beast lowered its head, and began to move again—slow, deliberate, divine.

It had one more duty before the storm arrived.

To stop Ostap.

To protect the Regalia.

To buy time… for what must come next.

The first to awaken was Varun.

Still groggy, he rose with a start, his instincts kicking in like an old reflex. Battle-hardened and bursting with restless energy, he surveyed his surroundings—what greeted him was not a battlefield, but a graveyard of dreams. Pskov, the city that once pulsed with life, now lay ruined around them.

The cobblestones were coated in ash and memory. He quickly found his companions and tried waking them.

Avi stirred next, rubbing his eyes, followed by Yudhir—ever the watcher, who instantly assessed their position. Ruslan was the last. As his eyes opened, and as they took in the broken skyline, recognition struck him like a blade to the chest.

This was his home.

He rose shakily, lips trembling, before collapsing to his knees. Tears rolled freely down his cheeks as if trying to wash away the image of his beloved city, now a hollowed husk. His fists clenched and struck the cracked earth beneath him.

It wasn’t just a boy crying—it was a child mourning a world stolen.

The grief was raw, his sobs like the broken roar of a lion cub left without a den. The others could only watch. Avi's jaw clenched—not from anger, but from helplessness. He had promised to protect this child. Now, he felt that promise had shattered like glass. Varun stood awkwardly, his usual charm useless in the face of such despair. Yudhir placed a hand gently on Ruslan’s shoulder—his patience was his gift, but even he felt the fracture inside him.

There was something strange about their inability to fully express their emotions. It was as if something unseen had robbed them of it, hollowing out their sorrow and letting it echo instead of flow. They each saw that missing weight reflected in each other.

A shifting gust cleared the dust around them—and in the distance, a tall structure remained standing.

Yudhir pointed. “The temple,” he said softly. “It’s still there.”

Avi looked up. “There might be people… hiding inside. We should check.”

Ruslan sniffled, raising his head. “R-Really? You think… they might be alive?”

Varun smiled, placing a hand on Ruslan’s back. “I bet they are. Look! Someone’s coming this way!”

Yudhir's caution kicked in. “Wait! It could be an enemy—”

But Varun had already sprinted off, arms flailing, voice echoing down the empty street like a boy chasing a butterfly.

He stopped in his tracks.

Coming toward him was a girl—no, a knight. She moved with otherworldly grace, her moss-green scale armor dappled with barnacle fragments. Her sash billowed like a wave in still air, and her sword—if it could be called that—was a sleek, hardened strand of seaweed magic, humming with forgotten oceanic power. Hair flowed down her back in seaweed-colored waves, and her eyes were deep as moonlit tide-pools.

Varun forgot to breathe.

The girl tilted her head, curious. “I am Rusalka,” she said in a voice like waves pulling back from the shore. “Are you the only survivors? And… why are you staring at me like that?”

“I-I’m not! I mean—I am! I mean, no! I’m Varun!” he blurted, flushing. “The others are back there. Come! I’ll show you!”

She gave a very soft, very unimpressed sigh. “Okay, weird boy. Lead on.”

Varun practically skipped ahead, his steps suddenly lighter. Rusalka followed. Avi noticed his unusually goofy smile from afar and raised an eyebrow.

Yudhir, of course, understood immediately. A devilish smirk bloomed on his face. Oh, he would be using this later. He glanced at Ruslan, who still looked shaken—but when he caught Yudhir’s expression, something clicked. For the first time since waking, the boy laughed.

It was a soft laugh. But it was there.

Avi was relieved. Whatever game Yudhir had started, it was working. Even if he didn’t understand the silent exchange, he saw that the boy had smiled.

Varun and Rusalka joined them again. Varun walked stiffly, bracing himself for a teasing ambush, but to his surprise, Yudhir just smiled.

Too much.

Ruslan ran up, eyes wide. “Are you real? Are there more people? Please, tell me—did the temple hold?”

Rusalka nodded. “Yes. Many citizens are hiding inside. The priests barred the gates. But… many others weren’t as lucky.”

Avi’s voice turned grave. “How bad is it?”

Rusalka looked away, her voice quieter. “The soldiers fought valiantly. But they’re gone. The Mayor, the Veche elders, even the Stersly commanders—they were all taken by the Novgorod invaders and are imprisoned beneath the garrison.”

Ruslan’s eyes darkened with resolve. This time, he didn’t fall to the ground. He stood straighter.

“We’re getting them back,” Yudhir declared, his voice sharp.

Rusalka blinked. “Excuse me? There’s a battle going on between a giant beast and a tree-monster, the city is crawling with Novgorod soldiers, and you want to launch a rescue mission?”

Avi grinned, cracking his knuckles. “Perfect timing, then. While they're distracted.”