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 Emergence of the Tree Giant

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.”

Temple of Rod (Center of Pskov)

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 ?…”

Eastern Front – The Birth of the Tree Giant

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.