"The very idea of us being called to do this is madness, and you know it, Kuzma!"
Ekaterina's voice cut through the silence, sharp as a blade. The argument between the two filled the entire room, and the tension was palpable.
From the window, Nikolai could see the outer training field. Even from that distance, the metallic sound of weapons, the grunts of bears, and the dull thuds of bodies hitting the ground were distinguishable. Outside, one of Vybor's top 10 teams was training — but no one inside that room seemed to have the stomach to watch.
"Actually,"
Kuzma replied, crossing his arms and maintaining his usual calm,
"it's just one floor below where we've already been."
He paused, trying to gauge his tone.
"We have the map, we won't be going alone, and the payment…"
he raised an eyebrow,
"the payment would guarantee enough comfort to give us peace of mind without needing another incursion for years; we could finally take only protection jobs just to supplement our income."
The arguments were solid. Kuzma's group wasn't made up of rookies — except for Nikolai, of course, who was still a recent addition. Caution had always been the team's foundation. Low-risk missions, meticulous planning, and an absolute refusal of blind gambles — that was the philosophy that had kept them alive for almost three decades.
But time took its toll. Kuzma's wrinkles were deeper, Andrei's spark had faded, and even Laika, the oldest battle bear, no longer roared with the same strength. Even Ekaterina knew it, no matter how much she refused to admit it. The body demanded its tribute. With each mission, the exhaustion lingered longer. And still, she couldn't accept it.
"I understand…"
she said, her voice lower now, as if trying to convince herself.
"But, Kuzma… we've never done this, and I…"
She stopped, took a deep breath.
"We've never gone this deep."
The weight of the sentence hung in the air.
"The creatures are the same as on the two levels above,"
Kuzma insisted, with a calm that sounded forced.
"And we won't be alone."
He was trying to cling to the details, to the numbers, to the small advantages that might justify that decision. But he knew, deep down, that it was a reckless mission — dangerously beyond reason. Two or three months ago, he would have refused without hesitation. Now, however, things were different.
Yes, they were the same beasts — but in much greater numbers. Still, the group was stronger, more cohesive. And seeing other teams — especially the leader of Svarog — looking at his group with respect and curiosity rekindled something in him he thought long dead: ambition.
Ekaterina, however, didn't see things the same way. She placed her hands on the table, her gaze fixed on Kuzma, her voice heavy with unease.
"I agree the Moranas are strong,"
she said at last.
"But you don't know Tatiana."
The way she pronounced the name came out almost like venom.
"She is… reckless. Extremely reckless."
She paused.
"If something goes wrong down there, she won't think. She'll react. And when she reacts, the consequences…"
she looked at Kuzma firmly,
"tend to be catastrophic and extremely selfish."
A heavy silence fell over the room. Even the distant sounds of training outside seemed to fade away. Kuzma stared at her for a few seconds. He knew she was right. But he also knew that if they didn't take the mission now, they might never have another chance like this.
"Then we'll lead,"
said Kuzma, breaking the silence.
"And we'll make it work."
As soon as he finished the sentence, he took a deep breath, wondering if he was overstepping — or perhaps blinding himself to the chance of finally leaving behind the burden he had carried for so many years. At last, he sighed and changed his tone:
"Maybe… we can put it to a vote."
He knew there was no decision without a cost. The pros and cons of the mission balanced like sharp blades — and he didn't want to carry alone the weight of what could become either glory… or tragedy.
A brief silence lingered. Then Ekaterina stepped forward:
"I vote that we stay,"
she said firmly, without hesitation.
"And let another group take our place."
Direct. Pragmatic. Her tone left no room for questioning — it was more a statement than an opinion.
Andrei sighed, his gaze briefly shifting to Kuzma.
"I'm sorry, my friend,"
said Andrei.
"I truly believe we need to start thinking about the future. It's long past time to keep going down, day after day, into that hell."
He looked at Ekaterina, who seemed pleased that her love had chosen to stay by her side. But his gaze carried sadness as he spoke:
"This mission would finally give us the chance to try… but I can wait, my love."
There was a brief pause. He looked back at Kuzma.
"Wherever my wife is… I'll be there too."
His voice came out tired, almost resigned. Kuzma nodded silently.
"Don't worry, Andrei,"
he replied calmly.
"I understand your decision."
In the corner of the room, Daria had been watching everything in silence, her fingers drumming on the head of her staff. Her eyes sparkled — not with fear, but with curiosity.
"I vote we go,"
she said suddenly, with a subtle smile.
She turned to the little white bear curled up beside her.
"Don't you agree, Kira?"
The bear let out a soft growl, almost a purr. The sound even drew a half-smile from Ekaterina.
"There you go,"
Daria concluded proudly.
"Kira agrees."
Kuzma looked at Nikolai. The newcomer still hadn't said anything, and now all eyes were on him. Daria, smiling. Ekaterina, serious. Andrei, thoughtful. Kuzma, calm but attentive.
Nikolai swallowed hard.
"Well…"
he began, trying to gather his thoughts,
"our mission is just to supervise the construction of the gate, right?"
Before he could finish, Ekaterina interrupted:
"Actually, it's not just that,"
she said, arms crossed.
"We'll be protecting the builders while holding off any horde that emerges from the lower level."
"Stop scaring the boy, Ekaterina,"
countered Kuzma.
"We don't even know if there's going to be a horde."
She slowly turned her head, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh, of course…"
she said sarcastically.
"Because obviously, while a group of blacksmiths is hammering metal against solid wall, no monster is going to show up."
Silence returned — heavy, dense. Soon, a new argument broke out. Voices overlapped, but Nikolai, silently, tried to map all the risks — and he knew, with a cold certainty, that if something could go wrong… it would.
At first glance, the mission seemed simple. But the more he thought about it, the more he saw the absurdity disguised as logic.
There were several entrances to the lower levels, depending on the floor — that was a fact. However, the fourth level was an exception. Unlike the others, its passages were extremely limited: only three. And of those, only one was wide enough to allow the passage of large creatures like giants and Leshiy. That's where the idea came from.
A few years ago, during a Triad meeting, a plan began to take shape — a bold proposal, passed on to Kolya and classified as one of Svarog's most ambitious missions. The idea was simple… and insane: descend to the fourth level with a small squad and skilled blacksmiths, forge a permanent gate, and seal the main entrance used by the creatures.
The group had to be small. With fewer people, it was easier to reach the lower levels without confrontations and, at the same time, avoid drawing the attention of the most dangerous enemy on the fourth floor: the giants.
The giants were one-eyed creatures that fed exclusively on flesh. Despite their enhanced vision due to their massive eye, they didn't rely on it — they preferred using hearing. Because of their size, they conserved energy, only moving and attacking when they heard hordes or similarly large monsters. For some unknown reason, groups with more than twenty people almost always attracted them as well.
Extremely strong, thick-skinned, and more intelligent than the Leshiy, they were considered highly dangerous. They preferred wielding primitive weapons, such as stone maces or clubs made from stalactites torn from their surroundings. Reports of a giant being killed were extremely rare and scattered. There were legends claiming that, to become a Czar in the North, one had to kill one alone — such was the challenge.
That's why, under no circumstances, could the group be large. It had to be lean and strong. This was an old rule, tested to the limit by the unlucky few who had encountered giants — and one of the main reasons Ekaterina so firmly opposed the descent.
At first, Kolya rejected the request as madness. But as the concept took shape, the absurd began to feel irresistibly logical. And it was precisely at that moment of vulnerability — when most experienced fighters would, by necessity, be away from Svarog — that the once-bold theory began to be seen as the only real hope.
The plan to raise a permanent gate on the fourth level, once treated as a dream or tactical delusion, now began to seem like an act of collective survival. Kolya knew this better than anyone. If there were another option, she would never consider authorizing such a risky operation — especially in such a delicate moment. But it was the recent events that left her no choice.
The absence of the major groups, the emptying of the middle levels, and the urgent need to keep supplies stable turned old reckless ideas into inevitable strategies. What had once been a project worthy of admiration and tactical studies would now be executed for real.
There were, without a doubt, advantages. The floor had been recently cleared under Kolya's orders, and advanced scouts had already checked for the presence — or absence — of enemies, especially giants. In theory, that territory was safe… or at least as safe as it could be. The perfect moment to act.
With the gate in place, the chances of invasion would plummet. The Leshiy, wandering creatures of the lower layers, would be forced to remain in their domains, and the giants would become things of the past. The upper levels would finally become easier to explore — a relief for the weaker tamers.
Below the gate, however, it would be a different story: more enemies, more chaos. But that… would be a problem for another day. For Svarog, it would be a historic milestone. The floors would become safer, opening the way for weaker tamers — like those with black bears — to explore the area without fear. And above all, it would ensure stable resources and a continuous food supply for the entire fortress.
It was a promise too tempting to ignore. But, as Ekaterina had warned, the problem wasn't the construction… it was the sound. It would be impossible to raise an iron gate and fasten it to the stone without drawing attention. And though the fourth floor had been cleared, it wasn't empty. The creatures living below it were strong, ancient — predators even the Leshiy avoided challenging, and the giants ignored. It was a gamble where the reward and the risk weighed the same — and it was heavy.
Nikolai took a deep breath.
"This is not an easy question to answer,"
he said at last, sincerely.
He wanted to grow. He wanted to test his limits, to become someone worthy of the respect he was beginning to feel weighing on his shoulders. Facing powerful creatures wasn't just ambition — it was necessity. But… there were innocents involved.
Most of the blacksmiths selected for the mission were black bear tamers — brave, no doubt, but unable to match the brute strength of a Brown or the arcane power of a Blue or White. The amount Kolya had to pay to convince fewer than ten blacksmiths to descend was enormous — and even then, only the most desperate accepted. Everyone knew that, if things got out of hand, they'd be nothing more than meat shields. Nothing more.
"But…"
he raised his gaze, his voice hesitant,
"if I could choose… I'd choose to go."
The words echoed through the room, and the silence that followed felt almost respectful. Nikolai knew what he was saying. He knew the risk. And he knew that, most likely, he would die if things went wrong. But deep down, he couldn't bear the thought of staying behind while others risked everything for the North.
Being cautious while others threw themselves into the danger of a new continent felt like cowardice — and for someone like him, that was worse than failure. It was a selfish thought. Naive. But also full of hunger. He needed to prove he deserved to be there. He needed to fight — not just for strength or glory, but for redemption. And maybe, just maybe, this mission was the price fate demanded for not being called to the new continent.
Nikolai's answer seemed to surprise everyone. He, who for the past month had always acted with almost calculated serenity, had spoken with a conviction no one expected.
Kuzma watched him in silence. He recognized that look — the look of someone who, for the first time, understood the weight of their own choices. To him, Nikolai had always been an enigma. A mutilated orphan, a boy who, by the cruel logic of the North, should never have made it to Vybor. The loss of his leg and the absence of family had shaped him into someone reserved, overly calm, as if life itself were a minefield and a single wrong step could destroy him.
When Vadin, his wife, had convinced him to take the boy into the group, Kuzma expected trouble. Expected hesitation, fear, even trauma. He was prepared to carry the boy as a burden — someone who would survive only because others fought in his place. But time proved otherwise.
From the very first day, everything improved. Nikolai didn't just train with discipline; he absorbed knowledge as if learning itself were a form of breathing. His magic — eccentric, different, sometimes dangerously unpredictable — was also powerful, shaped by rare intuition. He adapted, changed rhythm as combat demanded, and somehow always found a clever way to make impossible ideas work.
Kuzma would never admit it out loud, but he knew: without that boy and his little gray bear, they never would've reached Svarog's top 100. And yet, what intrigued him most about Nikolai wasn't the talent — it was the fear. A constant, subtle fear, hidden behind calculated gestures and neutral smiles. The fear of taking risks, of failing, of being swallowed by the same fate that had already maimed him once.
But now… something had changed. The way the boy looked at the others, the firm voice, the gleam in his eyes — everything indicated that he finally understood what it meant to fight for something bigger than himself. It wasn't just survival. It was belonging. Purpose.
Kuzma crossed his arms, taking a deep breath. The silence stretched until he finally broke it with a calm, resolute voice:
"Very well,"
he said.
"Then it's decided."
The sentence echoed among them like an invisible seal, binding more than a decision. It was the beginning of a path they all knew had no return.