Nikolai stepped into the room.
He had expected something grand — runes, magical torches, altars. But what he found was merely a stone cubicle. Bricks stacked irregularly, damp walls, cold floor. Five steps in each direction and nothing more. More a cell than a room.
He barely had time to think when a voice cut through him.
Loud, clear, coming from all directions at once:
"Good afternoon, dear Northerner. My name is Alexandra Feodorovna and I will be your guide during the simulation. Would you like to update yourself in which art?"
Nikolai's heart raced. He spun on his heels, searching for the source. Nothing. Only the soft echo of a voice that seemed to speak from the stone, the air, his very mind.
A low, continuous sound began to vibrate — like a distant drum, reminding him he had to respond.
"Archery… please."
"Understood. Study of the arts of bow and arrow. Would you like to simulate both or do you already have a complementary item?"
The same steady sound returned, rhythmic, as if dictating the pace of the conversation.
"I already have a magical bow… but I need arrows."
A dry snap echoed beside Nikolai.
In a matter of seconds, two quivers appeared on the gray, empty floor — one resting near his foot, the other close to Ashen. The arrows were translucent, like liquid glass, but their tips glowed with condensed energy.
"Please present the bow for customization."
Nikolai removed the bow from his back. As he did, the weapon began to glow, as if enveloped by an invisible force. A beam of light scanned it from top to bottom, analyzing every detail.
Seconds later, an exact replica of his bow was formed beside the quivers.
"Ambrosia wood bow from the third floor: 87%.
Interlacing string of adult Alkonost feathers: 13%.
Classification: D-."
The bear lowered its snout over the quiver and the bow, sniffing curiously. It found it odd not to smell wood, or iron… nor blood.
Only emptiness.
"Please select the environment for training."
Nikolai was still trying to grasp what was happening when, suddenly, several names began to appear in front of him. The locations listed formed a kind of screen suspended in the air — some he knew well, like the entrance of Medved, the Strait of Gargantua, and even the floors of Svarog. Others, however, were completely unfamiliar.
What caught his attention was the way the environments were divided: two large groups, each marked with a suggestive title.
"Please," — said Nikolai, hesitantly — "can you explain the difference between 'passive' and 'active'?"
"Of course.
Passive maps are defense or training areas with static targets.
Active maps involve direct combat or moving targets, without restrictions or protections.
Would you like any more information?"
Nikolai understood the basics. He knew that ideally, he should train with moving targets or in real combat. But he also knew that, although it was the right path, it might not be the smartest one for someone so inexperienced.
He first needed to understand how the simulation worked. Gain familiarity.
Dying right away, without being able to react, wouldn't teach him anything.
"Please, generate environment: Medved, passive."
"Generating simulation."
Nikolai took a deep breath. He still didn't feel ready to fight something that moved. He wanted to understand the mechanics, step by step.
That was when the room began to tremble around him.
The stone walls dissolved like smoke. The ceiling vanished, swallowed by a gray sky. The cold floor expanded into deep snow, covering him up to his ankles.
Ahead, five wooden mannequins appeared, lined up at different distances, the last so far away it was barely visible against the whiteness of the plain.
Nikolai walked. He looked for a wall, a boundary. There was none. The farther he went, the more snow he found. It was as if he had left the cell and stepped into a dream.
"Am I asleep?"
He wondered, confused. What kind of magic could create something like this?
Before he could get lost in doubt, the voice returned.
Stronger.
Closer.
"Mission 1: hit all mannequins."
"Mission 2: hit all mannequins within a few minutes of each other."
"Mission 3: hit all mannequins within a few seconds of each other."
The female voice echoed across the plain like metallic bells — emotionless, only instruction.
Nikolai frowned. The fact that this specific place had programmed missions piqued his curiosity.
If there were challenges... there were probably rewards.
In the end, it wouldn't hurt to ask.
"Do these missions offer any kind of benefit?"
He ventured, looking into the void, expecting some answer in the same automated tone as before.
No answer came.
The silence dragged on for uncomfortable seconds, and Nikolai realized that perhaps the way he had asked was incorrect. The artificial intelligence seemed to respond better to direct commands — not conversation.
He took a deep breath, adjusted his tone and tried again, choosing more objective words, the way he imagined a system would expect.
"Alexandra... what if I complete all three missions? Do I get something?"
This time, the pause was shorter — and then the voice returned, in the same neutral and impersonal tone:
"Reward granted only for completed missions. Three levels of evaluation."
"By completing all stages, you unlock a performance mark, increase your affinity with the artifact, and generate a potential record."
"The potential record can be shared with the tower or with group leaders. Excellent performances may be converted into extra time of permanence."
There was another brief pause. Then, the voice added:
"Do you wish to begin mission 1?"
Nikolai felt he needed to better understand how the room worked. He thought it would be more productive to seek information — after all, he was already there and had time. What he lacked was finding out just how much he could get out of that place.
"Could you explain the rules of this place to me?"
"Identifying lack of knowledge about the rules of the magical space. Do you wish me to generate the book of rules?"
"Please."
Suddenly, a colossal book appeared in the air, hovering open above the snow. The pages turned on their own, lit by blue runes. Though perfectly legible, Alexandra's voice narrated each line, emphasizing every ambiguous point as if she were the lawyer of a contract.
"If the missions are completed, additional time will be granted. The physical limit is three external days, but accumulated bonuses allow multiple future entries."
Nikolai blinked, amazed. After a few hours, everything became clearer — and the benefits offered were extremely attractive, even generating external values that could be converted into real currency.
The idea of training for weeks in that environment was fascinating, especially since it was a safe space.
But the euphoria was soon crushed by reality. Although there were only three missions, they proved to be extremely difficult. He only realized the true scale of the challenge when he saw: the first mannequin was fifty meters away. The last, two hundred and fifty.
To earn a decent reward, it would be necessary to complete all the missions on the map — which meant hitting all three targets with only seconds between each shot.
Nikolai was almost certain he wouldn't be able to hit the last mannequin even after a lot of training, let alone all three in sequence and with precision.
If he wanted something to change, he'd have to act. And fast.
He laughed, nervously.
"Alright, Ashen. I guess we can begin."
The bear looked around, suspicious, sniffing the illusory snow. It growled low, uncomfortable with that scentless world. But when its eyes turned to Nikolai, they seemed to say: Let's go.
The boy took a deep breath. Raised his bow.
The energy shaped itself into a translucent arrow. The Alkonost string groaned as he drew it back.
"Let's see how I do."
He let go.
The arrow dropped after only ten meters.
Nikolai laughed.
Ashen tilted his head.
"I won't lie... I thought I'd be a prodigy."
He tried again. And again.
Thirty times.
The arrows whistled through the wind — some scraping the ground, others flying so high they barely looked aimed at anything.
Ashen even lay down on the illusory snow, huffing, as if giving up before his partner.
But Nikolai didn't stop. Every missed shot was a puzzle piece. Every failure, a nervous laugh, a crooked lesson.
Then the voice returned, clear and metallic:
"First behavior pattern detected. Suggestion available. Would you like to hear it?"
"Yes."
"I would like to suggest the study of a book for shooting improvement."
At that moment, something appeared in the snow before Nikolai. A heavy tome, bound in black leather, the title engraved in golden letters that gleamed even under the gray sky:
The Art of Archery – Basic.
Nikolai raised an eyebrow.
"Well… I thought I was getting better. But thank you."
He sat down beside Ashen. The bear curled up in the illusory snow, its heavy breathing sounding like silent encouragement. The boy opened the book: pages filled with diagrams, postures drawn with precision, detailed notes on angles and breathing.
Four hours passed like four minutes. The outside world didn't exist. There was only the rhythm of reading, the images dancing in his mind, and the sound of his and Ashen's breathing, intertwined.
When he finally stood up, something had changed in his body.
"Okay… so my breathing is holding me back. I need to align my body perpendicular to the target. Feet shoulder-width apart. Shoulders relaxed."
Ashen watched closely, head low, as if also absorbing the lesson.
Nikolai raised the bow. Drew the string of light. Exhaled slowly.
Released.
The arrow traced a perfect arc through the cold air…
And struck just beside the first mannequin's knee.
"Yes! Victory!"
Joy exploded in Nikolai's chest. It didn't matter that he hadn't fully hit the target yet — the difference between shooting with technique and without it was like comparing wine to water.
To him, it was a milestone.
He tried again, this time more focused. And finally, hit the mannequin's ankle.
The four hours spent sitting on the ground, practicing in silence, had at last brought the long-awaited result.
For the first time in hours, a smile appeared — and with it, a playful moment between Nikolai, still nervous from feeling terribly incompetent, and Ashen, tired of the monotony.
They both danced in the illusory snow until Alexandra's voice cut through the euphoria:
"Congratulations. You are now part of the 99.8% who completed the first stage."
Nikolai blinked. He didn't know whether that was sarcasm or encouragement.
aybe both. But it didn't matter. A victory was a victory.
He turned to Ashen, who let out a low, satisfied growl.
"We're going to go far. I'm sure of it."
The bear pressed his forehead against Nikolai's leg, sealing the silent pact.
And while no one else could see that scene inside the simulation, outside, a woman watched.
Her eyes fixed on the flow of magic emanating from the room, she saw the two sparks — the boy and the bear — glowing with childlike excitement over a simple crumb.
And she smiled.
Because she knew: crumbs, when gathered, become bread.
And bread, sooner or later, becomes a feast.
_________________________________________________
"Brother, I like to think you made a choice based on the heart... but I've known you too long to believe that's what you usually do. So why did you accept him into the group?" — Daria kept her voice low, but her eyes were full of doubt.
"I understand Vadim wanted to help, but... I still don't know the real reason behind all this. What are you hiding from me?"
Kuzma sighed, his broad shoulders giving in to the weight of years of memories.
He looked around. The hall, once full of life, was now almost empty — the tables silent.
Dinner had long passed, and breakfast was not far off. Most were already asleep.
Kuzma and his sister were still discussing new strategies, trying to limit the participation of the new member. Truthfully, Kuzma didn't have much hope that Nikolai would achieve any real mastery in such a short time.
But with the rare day off they would have — due to a member's absence — he could compensate for the lack of an incursion with study: area mapping and combat tactic improvement. That's how Kuzma thought.
Daria respected — even admired — that way of thinking.
Kuzma was someone who knew well his limitations as a black bear tamer, but he compensated for them in every other aspect.
But despite being a prepared man, he wasn't ready for his sister's question — which brought back memories capable of tightening his face and making his eyes tremble.
Even so, he knew: veils were made to be lifted, sooner or later.
The old tamer leaned forward, his face partially hidden by the lamplight's shadow. His voice, which usually echoed firm like an axe striking wood, dropped to a thin, tense whisper:
"On the day of Vadim's and my evaluation, at the Berlóga of Vybor… we were very nervous."
His calloused hands clasped on the table, squeezing until his knuckles turned white. His eyes shut, as if trying to erase the scene — but it was useless.
His mouth dried, as if he had walked for hours through a desert. The past dragged him back with sharp claws.
Daria, confused, now carried the childlike curiosity of someone watching her older brother — always strong and righteous — stumble into a memory.
"And when the bears lined up… none stood in front of Vadim."
The words hung in the air, heavy as lead.
Daria paled. Her lips, once firm, parted in silence.
She knew the ritual well. She knew exactly what it meant when no bear chose a human.
It was a death sentence.
Her heart raced. Her breath grew short — nearly a stifled sob.
"That... that can't be true." — she whispered, but her voice betrayed her panic.
"But how...? That doesn't make sense."
Kuzma finally opened his eyes slowly, and in them was a wet, bitter gleam.
"I know." — Kuzma's voice faltered, broken by a bitter laugh. — "But I was there. I was there when..."
He swallowed hard. The memory cut through him like a blade.
"When what?" — his sister pressed.
Kuzma rested his hand on his head, shaking slowly.
"I didn't see it clearly. But Vadim told me. A girl beside him said some strange words to Boris."
The name fell like thunder. Boris. The gatekeeper of Vybor.
Kuzma laughed through his tears.
"I could hear the strange words coming from somewhere near Vadim and me… but I thought it was impossible. No one could move."
Kuzma seemed to search for a reason, some logic — but it was clear his mind couldn't distinguish what was real from what was madness.
"I didn't understand what they were saying, nor could I see where it came from.
It was a language I'd never heard before.
Strange. Animalistic."
Daria leaned in, her heart racing.
"And then…?"
Kuzma took a deep breath.
"Boris looked at the bear of a boy nearby.
And that bear… left where it stood and walked over to stand in front of Vadim.
I can still hear the cry of despair from that boy, watching his chance to live slip away."
The silence that followed was suffocating. The two siblings stared at each other, whispering like conspirators in the face of a sacrilege.
"But... that's impossible." — Daria murmured, her hand trembling on the table.
"I know." — Kuzma locked eyes with her, now filled with tears that flowed endlessly. — "But my Vadim was saved by what she did that day."
He let the air out, as if spitting out a secret buried for decades — finally relieving the weight that had crushed him inside.
"Do you know the name of the person who spoke to Boris and saved my love, sister?"
A sepulchral silence. Daria's mind spun, but the conclusion seemed impossible.
Until something exploded inside her — a revelation so abrupt her expression changed completely: from stunned to something between terror and shock.
"No..."
"Yes." — said Kuzma, each word sounding like iron struck on an anvil. — "Polina. Polina Romanov."