Scene 9 : Brothers
From the broken crown of the building, Bezlik had not moved an inch.
Smoke drifted past him. Ash settled on his coat. Below, the city groaned under roots and ice and fire. He had watched wars before—from shadows, from ledges, from places where survival depended on not being seen.
But this—
This was different.
When Avi drove his blade into the trunk, Bezlik felt it before he understood it.
The air temperature dropped sharply. His breath fogged. The shockwave wasn't explosive—it was decisive, like a verdict being passed.
Bezlik's eyes narrowed.
"…A thrust," he muttered. "Not a slash."
His fingers tightened unconsciously around the edge of the ruined parapet.
He watched the Tree Giant convulse—not in pain, but in confusion. Regeneration halted. Zhivava flow disrupted. A clean opening, perfectly sealed by ice.
Bezlik had seen power before.
This wasn't raw power.
This was control.
Avi stood alone before the calamity, unmoving, holding the wound open through sheer discipline. No wasted motion. No grandstanding. Just resolve sharpened into form.
Bezlik exhaled slowly.
"So that's how the new generation fights…"
Not louder.
Not fiercer.
Smarter.
His gaze shifted immediately—not to Avi, but to the opening.
To the two figures diving inside without hesitation.
"Rescue first," Bezlik noted. "No celebration. No victory pose."
A pause.
Something unfamiliar stirred in his chest—unease, maybe. Or respect.
"…If these children survive," he murmured, almost to himself,
"the world after this battle won't belong to men like me anymore."
For the first time since he began watching them, Bezlik stopped thinking like a spy—
and started thinking like a witness to history.
Inside the Trunk — The Womb of the Calamity
The moment Andry and Ruslan crossed the frozen threshold—
the world changed.
The ice sealed behind them with a deep, echoing thoom, muting the outside battle as if a door had closed on reality itself.
Inside the trunk was no hollow.
It was alive.
The walls pulsed slowly, layered with twisted wood and sinew, veins of green-black Zhivava running through them like corrupted arteries. Each pulse came with a low, wet sound—as if the giant itself were breathing around them.
The air was thick.
Heavy.
Every breath tasted of sap, rot, and stolen power.
Ruslan swallowed hard.
"…This is disgusting."
Andry didn't respond immediately.
He had stopped walking.
His eyes were fixed ahead.
At the center of the chamber—suspended within a lattice of roots and translucent resin—was a boy.
Ostap.
His body was bound in organic restraints that pierced into his arms, legs, and spine, siphoning Zhivava directly from him. His head lolled slightly, breath shallow, skin pale beneath faint emerald light.
Each time the giant tried to regenerate outside, the roots tightened around him.
Feeding.
Andry's fists shook.
"…I'm sorry," he whispered. "I should've come sooner."
Ruslan stepped forward, placing himself instinctively between Ostap and the surrounding roots, blade igniting faintly.
"Big bro," Ruslan said quietly, forcing steadiness into his voice. "He's alive. That's what matters. We get him out. That's it."
The trunk shuddered violently.
A distant roar reverberated through the walls as Avi resisted from outside.
Cracks of frost spread along the inner bark, buying them time—but not much.
The roots reacted.
They began to move.
Slowly. Purposefully.
As if the giant had realized what it was about to lose.
Andry lifted his ash-coated hands, Zhivava flaring despite his exhaustion.
"Ruslan," he said, eyes burning.
"No matter what happens—don't let go of him."
Ruslan nodded, jaw set.
"I won't."
The rescue had begun—
inside the beating heart of a monster that knew it was dying
and intended to take its prize with it.
Andry's voice cut through the suffocating air like a blade.
Andry (determined): "Let's remove his bindings first. Destroy them."
Ruslan's ember-lit eyes burned brighter, not with rage — but with resolve.
Ruslan: "I'm on it."
But the Tree Giant was not a mindless beast. It felt their intent the way roots sense water beneath the soil.
The chamber trembled.
From the writhing core of the trunk, a figure began to rise — distorted, hollow, and wrong. A warped mirror of Ostap, stitched together from vines, bark, and stolen Zhivava. Its shape rippled like a reflection on troubled water.
A fake Ostap, standing between the brothers and their real one.
The atmosphere thickened — humid, choking, and bitter with corruption. The real Ostap hung suspended behind the imitation like a captive heart inside a monstrous body.
The fake opened its mouth.
Its voice came out broken, split between human syllables and the groan of twisting wood.
Fake Ostap: "You… hum—ans… how dare… you enter… this sacred… place—"
Ruslan snapped.
His voice cracked like kindling catching fire.
Ruslan (emotionally furious): "Shut up, you fake. Release my brother — or I will burn you to ashes."
Andry stepped beside him, ash spiraling around his fists like a storm contained in his veins.
Andry (cold and wrathful): "And I will turn those ashes into your giant's funeral."
They moved together — not as two fighters, but as one rhythm.
The imitation lashed out first, spawning thick vines from its palms like spears. Ruslan ignited them instantly, his embers biting through the corruption. The burning remains turned to ash — and Andry weaponized that ash in the same heartbeat, scattering and shredding the vines before they could regenerate.
For a moment, the brothers had the upper hand.
Then the Tree Giant intervened.
The entire trunk shuddered violently.
The inner chamber lurched like the deck of a sinking ship. Ruslan and Andry staggered — just for a split second — but that was all the fake Ostap needed.
Thick thorned vines burst from the walls like hunting snakes.
Their tips glistened with toxic sap.
Spikes erupted around the brothers — faster than they could react.
They struck.
Pain tore through both of them.
The poison seeped into their wounds, burning colder than ice and hotter than fire at the same time. Their knees buckled, breath hitching.
The imitation stood tall, unbroken.
It was not real Ostap — but it was far from weak.
And this was its battlefield.
Outside — The Frost Warrior Surrounded
Outside, chaos had not relented.
Avi stood alone amid a rising tide of mutated beasts, frost clinging to his armor like winter made flesh.
Most of his strength had gone into carving the opening for the brothers — yet he did not waver.
His greatsword moved with calm precision.
No panic. No wasted motion.
Each swing was clean, surgical, inevitable — like ice cracking stone.
Where others fought wildly, Avi fought steadily.
Even so, the horde kept swelling.
Bezlik, watching from his shattered perch, narrowed his eyes.
He didn't admire Avi.
He calculated him.
In that moment, Bezlik knew: if Avi ever regained his full past mastery, he would not just be dangerous — he would be catastrophic to anyone who stood against him.
A true calamity wrapped in calm.
Avi exhaled sharply.
Avi (breathing hard but focused): "Huff… how many of these mutants are there? Did they multiply while I blinked?"
Then he felt it.
A shadow over the canopy.
From the twisted treetops descended something monstrous — a colossal corrupted eagle, forged from warped Zhivava, its wings ripping the air apart as it dove like a living missile.
The beasts surged at the same time, piling onto Avi from all sides.
His escape route vanished.
For a heartbeat, death hovered above him.
Then —
A piercing jet of compressed wind tore through the sky.
The eagle exploded mid-dive.
Before the fragments could even fall, a blazing iron fist streaked through the air like a comet and smashed through what remained of it.
A vortex roared to life.
Mutated beasts were ripped off the ground and shredded in spiraling winds.
Those that survived were cut down by a swift silver blade — Rusalka, elegant and merciless.
Yudhir floated above, grinning.
Yudhir (teasing): "Need any help, Captain?"
Varun slumped slightly, wiping sweat from his brow.
Varun (exhausted): "Man… I'm dry. My magic is basically empty."
Rusalka shot him a sharp look — sharp, but not cruel.
Rusalka: "Hey, seaweed — you can nap after we win."
Avi laughed softly, relief cutting through the tension.
Avi: "So the rescue team needed rescuing… I'll never live this down."
Boris stepped forward, iron gauntlet still glowing with embers.
His voice carried authority.
Boris: "Kids — don't relax. That giant is planning something nastier. Avi, go inside. Help your brothers. We'll hold the line."
Varun straightened, water swirling around him once more.
Varun (confident): "Go, Captain. We'll guard the ground."
Yudhir met Avi's gaze.
Yudhir (serious now): "Bring all three of them back."
Avi closed his eyes for a brief moment.
His mother's words echoed in his mind.
Dhairyaṁ sarvatra sādhanam.
Steadiness above all.
He opened his eyes — calm, unwavering.
Avi: "I will."
And with that, the frost warrior turned toward the gaping wound in the Tree Giant's trunk — stepping back into its heart of darkness.
Avi disappeared into the gaping frozen wound of the Tree Giant, his silhouette dissolving into a ribbon of cold mist as he crossed the threshold between the outer battlefield and the living interior of the monstrosity. For a brief moment, the world outside felt emptier without him — like winter itself had stepped away.
Above the shattered city, the sky had become a war zone of its own.
Yudhir ruled the air like a tempest wearing human skin. He darted between flying monstrosities with surgical precision, sometimes cutting through them with compressed blades of wind, sometimes diving straight through their bodies like a comet and ripping them apart from the inside. Every time he rose back into the clouds, his wake left spiraling vortexes that shredded any beast foolish enough to follow him.
Boris fought the sky without needing wings.
He leapt like a burning meteor, iron flames roaring from his gauntlets as he punched airborne hybrids mid-flight. Each impact exploded like a cannon blast, scattering embers and shattered plant-flesh across the battlefield. When he landed, the ground cracked beneath his boots, yet he moved again immediately — relentless, disciplined, terrifyingly efficient.
On the ground, Varun and Rusalka turned the forest into chaos.
Varun's water dragon serpents coiled through the battlefield like living rivers. They crushed large beasts in their jaws, drowned others in pressurized whirlpools, and swept entire clusters of monsters away from the rescue path. His control was sharper than ever — no wasted motion, no reckless bursts — just calculated devastation.
Rusalka was something else entirely.
She danced rather than fought.
Her seaweed blade flickered like liquid steel, extending unpredictably, bending mid-swing, and slicing beasts apart from impossible angles. She zig-zagged through the chaos, her movements slippery, evasive, and lethal. Smaller, faster monsters that would have overwhelmed Varun found themselves dissected in seconds by her immaculate timing and reflexes.
To Varun, she looked less like a soldier and more like a storm in human form.
Every time he caught a glimpse of her fighting — fearless, sharp, alive — his heart ached a little more. He couldn't stop admiring her. His heart ached even more realizing that he couldn't stop loving her more.
And yet, his eyes drifted to another figure across the battlefield.
Gabriel.
He moved with the same authority as before — shield spinning like a steel comet, cutting down beasts with cold precision. His soldiers followed him in tight formation, disciplined to the bone. But Varun could see it now — the crack beneath the armor. The hesitation in his stance. The shadow in his gaze.
Varun shattered the horn of a massive beast with his bare hands, water coiling around his arms like coiled serpents.
Varun (gritting his teeth to Yudhir):
"I still don't trust Gabriel. I still don't forgive him for what he did to Pskov."
Yudhir nose-dived from the sky, pinning a flying hybrid into the ground with a spiraling vortex before answering, breathing heavy but steady.
Yudhir:
"I don't either… but we have to trust Commander Boris's word."
At that moment, Boris pulverized a line of charging beasts with a blazing straight punch — a tunnel of iron flame carving through the horde.
Boris (calm, commanding):
"Listen carefully, lads. Gabriel isn't here out of goodwill — he's here because he has no other choice. When the Tree Giant rose from the ruins, he tried to contact Alexander… and there was only silence."
Rusalka froze mid-strike.
Rusalka (shocked):
"WHAT… Alexander vanished?!"
Boris nodded grimly, his gauntlets still burning.
Boris:
"When soldiers entered the ruined Mayor's office — his base — it was empty. No orders, no trail, no sign of retreat. Just abandonment. Gabriel's loyalty was always to Alexander alone. With him gone… Gabriel is lost, cornered, and desperate."
Varun's grip tightened around a beast's neck before he crushed it.
Varun (bitter, vulnerable beneath the anger):
"I don't care how lost he is. He turned me into a puppet. I don't even remember what I did under his control. That… that scares me more than anything."
Rusalka noticed something shift in his voice.
For the first time, she saw past his jokes, his swagger, his teasing grin.
She saw pain.
Not just Varun's — but Yudhir's too. And even Avi's, though he was gone now.
Three friends carrying the same invisible wound:
memories stolen, identities fractured, pasts blurred.
Rusalka said nothing, but her gaze softened.
Boris exhaled slowly.
Boris:
"I brought Gabriel here under my command. When this is over, he returns to Novgorod. He will answer for his crimes — properly, publicly, and permanently."
Before anyone could respond —
A screech ripped through the sky.
A massive golden eagle hybrid, corrupted with swirling Zhivava, dove straight from the canopy like a living missile aimed directly at the group. It came so fast that even Yudhir barely registered it in time.
Impact was inevitable.
Then — a flash of steel cut through the air.
Gabriel's shield flew like a spinning thunderbolt.
It sliced straight through the eagle, tearing it apart mid-dive in a shower of splintered feathers and burning plant-flesh before it could reach them.
Silence hung for a heartbeat.
Boris looked at Gabriel, impressed despite himself.
Boris:
"Thank you, General. That would've been disastrous."
Gabriel said nothing. He simply turned and continued fighting, his soldiers closing ranks around him.
Yudhir glanced at Varun.
Yudhir (quiet, steady):
"He was a soldier following orders… but that doesn't erase the damage done. Still… everyone deserves a chance to redeem themselves. Right, Varun?"
Varun hesitated — then sighed loudly.
Varun:
"Fine… I'll give him a chance. But his real apology isn't for us — it's for Pskov. For Andry. For Ruslan."
The battlefield raged on.
The heroes formed a living barrier around the frozen opening Avi had carved into the Tree Giant, cutting down any beast that dared approach. Every strike, every blast, every blade swing was meant to protect one thing:
The path inside.
Because within that twisted trunk, three brothers were about to reunite — and the fate of the forest child, Ostap, hung in the balance.
And beyond them all, the Tree Giant trembled, wounded, furious… and far from defeated.
Scene 10 : So that's your strength...
Inside the Giant Tree
The two brothers struggled desperately against the thorny vines binding them, but every movement only drove the barbed thorns deeper into their flesh. Poison seeped steadily into their wounds, cold and burning at the same time. Their muscles weakened. Their voices grew distant. The chamber around them blurred as their vision dimmed with each passing second.
The pain began to fade.
So did their resistance.
The burning toxin slowly transformed into a strange warmth, and the suffocating darkness inside the Tree Giant's heart dissolved like morning mist under sunlight. The crushing pressure of the vines loosened, replaced by something gentle — the soft brush of wind across their skin.
When Andry opened his eyes, he wasn't inside the giant anymore.
Golden evening light spilled across a quiet yard beside their old home in Pskov. The air smelled of warm bread and wood smoke drifting lazily from a nearby chimney. Snowmelt trickled along a narrow stream, glistening under an orange sky that felt endless and safe. A wooden fence leaned slightly to one side, exactly as he remembered. Old training swords stuck awkwardly in the ground marked where childhood battles had once been fought and forgotten.
Ruslan stood a few steps away, equally confused — younger somehow, smaller, untouched by the weight life had placed on his shoulders.
And there, laughing softly as if nothing in the world could ever go wrong, stood Ostap.
Their elder brother held two wooden swords, tossing one toward Andry with effortless ease.
"Come on," Ostap said, grin wide and familiar. "Again. Andry, don't scare him this time."
"I wasn't scaring him," Andry protested automatically, catching the sword. "He just falls too easily."
Ruslan puffed his cheeks, gripping his own practice blade with determination. "I don't fall easily!"
They clashed playfully, wooden swords tapping and scraping in harmless rhythm. Andry pushed a little too hard — as he always did — and Ruslan stumbled backward into the grass with a frustrated groan.
For a moment, the world fell quiet.
Then Ostap stepped in, kneeling beside Ruslan and helping him up with patient hands.
"Strength isn't about hitting harder," he said softly, brushing dirt from Ruslan's sleeve. "It's about making sure everyone gets home."
Andry rolled his eyes, but couldn't hide the smile tugging at his lips.
From across the yard, another figure watched silently.
Timothy Dovmont stood beneath the shade of a tree, arms folded, his scarred face softened by quiet pride. He didn't interfere — only observed, the way a mentor watches his students grow into themselves. The evening light caught the gray streaks in his beard as his gaze lingered on the three brothers with unmistakable affection.
"You three still owe me ten victories," he called out dryly.
Andry laughed. "More like you owe me, Uncle!"
Timothy shook his head, amused, while Ostap chuckled and ruffled both younger brothers' hair at once. It was such a simple gesture — ordinary, effortless — yet it filled the air with something fragile and perfect.
Time slowed.
The three brothers sat together afterward, sharing warm bread and laughing about things that didn't matter anymore. Ruslan leaned against Ostap's shoulder. Andry argued over meaningless rules with dramatic seriousness. Timothy watched from a distance, arms crossed, smiling faintly like a man convinced this moment could last forever.
But slowly…
The warmth began to shift.
The shadows stretched too long.
The wind grew cold.
The sky dimmed too quickly, its colors bleeding into an unnatural green. Laughter echoed strangely, as though heard through deep water.
Roots began to creep silently through the grass.
Ostap's smile faltered.
His movements slowed, freezing mid-laugh as vines curled around his legs.
Andry frowned. Something felt wrong — not in the dream, but inside his chest.
Ruslan's heartbeat quickened.
The scent of bread faded… replaced by sap and poison.
Timothy's figure blurred in the distance, his proud expression dissolving as though the memory itself was being stolen away.
Ostap turned toward them, voice soft and distant, echoing from somewhere far beyond reach.
"Why are you standing still?" he asked gently. "Come on… keep moving."
The words struck like lightning.
The yard cracked.
The sky shattered like glass.
Andry reached out instinctively — but the scene collapsed, pulled apart by creeping vines and consuming darkness.
Warmth vanished.
The brothers fell back into pain, into battle, into reality.
And the last thing they felt before waking was the faint echo of their uncle's proud gaze… and the memory of a home worth fighting for.
The battlefield no longer felt like a place of war.
It felt like something alive—breathing, shifting, watching.
The dream shattered.
Not gently… not slowly… but like glass struck by something merciless.
The golden light of evening fractured into jagged shards. The warmth of home—the scent of bread, the laughter, the quiet pride in Timothy Dovmont's eyes—was torn apart by creeping veins of darkness. The sky cracked. The ground split.
Roots erupted through memory.
Cold.
Hungry.
Alive.
Ostap's figure blurred first. His smile lingered for a moment too long—unnatural, stretched—before vines coiled around his legs and dragged him backward into the dissolving world.
"Why are you standing still?" his voice echoed, distant now. "Come on… keep moving."
The words struck like thunder.
And then—
Everything collapsed.
Pain returned.
Not as a sensation, but as a verdict.
Andry's eyes snapped open.
Darkness. Thick. Suffocating.
The thorned vines had burrowed deeper into his flesh. Each movement sent burning poison through his veins, yet his body barely responded anymore. His breath came slow, uneven… fading.
Across from him, Ruslan hung the same way—bound, bleeding, trembling.
"Rus…lan…" Andry tried to speak, but even his voice felt heavy.
Ruslan didn't answer.
For a moment, Andry thought—
He's gone.
Then—
A twitch.
Small.
Almost invisible.
Ruslan's fingers trembled weakly against his chest.
Once.
Twice.
Andry's eyes widened.
The memory.
The yard.
Ostap's voice.
"Right here… that's your strength."
Ruslan's hand struggled, shaking violently as the vines constricted tighter, thorns digging deeper as if the Tree itself rejected the act.
But still—
He moved.
Forward.
Just an inch.
Just enough.
And something shifted.
Across the chamber, the distorted figure of Ostap tilted its head.
It felt it.
The rhythm.
The defiance.
The bond it could imitate—but never understand.
Andry's chest tightened.
Not from poison.
From something else.
Something older than pain.
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second… and let go of everything that made him a fighter.
No strategy.
No power.
No anger.
Only—
Brother.
His hand moved.
Chest.
Once.
Twice.
Forward.
The moment both gestures aligned—
The air inside the chamber changed.
Not violently.
Not explosively.
But undeniably.
The vines trembled.
Outside the Giant
The Tree Giant reacted like a wounded god.
Its massive trunk pulsed, veins of corrupted Zhivava surging violently beneath its bark. The canopy above Pskov spread wider, darker—like a storm trying to swallow the sky whole. Roots beneath the earth writhed, drinking desperately from the ground, from the air… from the very life of the city.
The forest it had created surged back to life.
Beasts screamed into existence.
More twisted. More unstable.
More desperate.
Yudhir cut through the sky like a falling blade, his winds tearing apart a cluster of airborne creatures before they could descend.
"Something's wrong…" he muttered, eyes narrowing. "It's reacting…"
Below, Varun slammed his hands forward, water serpents roaring outward, devouring the advancing horde—but his breathing had grown heavy now.
"I'm seriously running on fumes here…" he exhaled, forcing a grin that didn't quite hold.
Rusalka moved beside him, her blade dancing in unpredictable arcs, cutting down smaller beasts before they could swarm.
"Then don't die before I decide you're allowed to rest," she snapped, though her eyes lingered on him for half a second longer than necessary.
A thunderous impact shook the ground.
Boris descended like a falling meteor, his gauntlet blazing as it drove straight through a charging beast, incinerating it from within.
"Hold your ground!" he commanded. "It's panicking!"
Nearby, Gabriel moved in silence, his shield carving through enemies with precise, brutal efficiency.
No words.
Only action.
High above it all—
Bezlik watched.
Still.
Unseen.
His gaze traced the battlefield like a scholar studying a rare phenomenon.
"Coordination under collapse…" he murmured softly. "Fascinating."
His eyes shifted—from Yudhir… to Varun… to the trembling trunk of the giant.
"And that one…" he whispered, sensing the shift within.
"...is the axis."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"They are not strong because of power…"
A pause.
"They are dangerous… because they refuse to break."
Inside the Giant Tree
A presence entered.
Quiet.
Cold.
Unshaken.
Avi stepped into the chamber.
The chaos did not reach him.
The screams did not reach him.
Even the poison in the air seemed to hesitate.
His eyes took everything in at once.
The vines.
The blood.
The broken breathing of the two brothers.
And the distorted figure standing between them.
For a moment—
He said nothing.
Because panic would waste time.
And time… was the one thing they no longer had.
He exhaled slowly.
Steady.
Like ice.
The fake Ostap moved first.
Its body twisted unnaturally, vines lashing outward like spears, tearing through the air toward Avi.
Avi stepped forward.
Not fast.
Not rushed.
Precise.
His blade moved.
Clean.
Minimal.
Each strike cut exactly where it needed to—no more, no less.
The vines fell apart before they could even complete their attack.
But his eyes—
They weren't on the enemy.
They were on Ruslan.
On Andry.
He saw it.
The gesture.
Incomplete… yet powerful.
Broken… yet alive.
For a fraction of a second—
Avi hesitated.
Then—
He tapped his chest.
Once.
The motion felt unfamiliar.
Incomplete.
But not wrong.
His stance shifted.
Feet grounded.
Body aligned.
The flow of movement changed—subtle, but undeniable.
Like something long forgotten had begun to awaken.
Ice gathered along his blade.
Not wildly.
Not violently.
But with terrifying control.
The fake Ostap lunged again—
And Avi moved.
single step.
A single breath.
A single strike.
Dragon Sword Style — Frozen Pulse Cleave.
The blade passed through.
Clean.
Silent.
Final.
For a moment—
Nothing happened.
Then—
The imitation split.
Its form destabilizing, unraveling like a lie that could no longer hold itself together.
At the same instant—
The vines binding the brothers cracked.
Shattered.
Released.
Outside
The entire Tree Giant trembled.
Violently.
A shockwave erupted from within its core, rippling outward through trunk, roots, and sky.
Yudhir stopped mid-air.
"They did it…"
Varun let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, a tired smile breaking through.
"Took them long enough…"
Rusalka didn't look at the giant.
She looked at Varun.
Just for a second.
Boris clenched his burning fist tighter.
"Now's our chance…!"
Gabriel raised his shield again—silent, ready.
High above—
Bezlik's smile deepened.
Inside
The chamber trembled.
The core was exposed.
But—
Ostap was still bound.
Still trapped.
The giant was not dying.
It was evolving.
The roots began to twist again.
Faster.
More violently.
Desperation replacing control.
A low, monstrous sound echoed through the hollow core.
Not a roar.
Not a scream.
Something worse.
Something that refused to fall.
Avi tightened his grip on the blade.
Andry forced himself to stand.
Ruslan steadied his breath.
The battle wasn't over.
It had only reached the point—
where none of them could afford to lose.