Heinrich watched the old man before him with a venomous calm. The harsh accent, the broken vocabulary in the language of the Empire… none of it mattered. The sneer on his lips betrayed the contempt he felt. To him, this was just another barbarian from the North — and these barbarians would bleed like all the others before them.
Rumors and whispers still echoed in his mind: never challenge a Bear of the North in direct combat, on his own ground.
They said they were monsters — warriors who endured the cold, steel, and even time.
But Heinrich was not a man to bow to intrigue or fear. If they were truly all they were said to be, even the Empire would fear them. Heinrich had already killed many who called themselves strong, and his Winged Beast had never failed him. Even with the ice hampering full flight, he firmly believed he could crush that old man… and paint the snow with Northern blood.
He and his brother would not win their freedom by winning that battle — after all, that wasn't how things worked. In truth, fighting would bring them nothing but new scars. Still, those scars were worth it if they meant one more day of life.
Being alive still gave them a chance, however small, to one day win their freedom.
Being dead, on the other hand, would seal their fate. And that was something they — greedy, ruthless, and utterly unscrupulous — would never accept.
So, in the most arrogant and overbearing way possible — or rather, the only way he knew how to act — he leaned forward slightly.
His voice came laced with false courtesy, but venom dripped from every syllable.
"What do you think, brother? Will you allow me to fight this old man alone? I wouldn't want to rob you of the honor of going first… but I confess I'm curious to see what color the blood of Northern folk is."
A heavy silence fell for a moment. The biting wind dragged the snow like razors around them. Friedrich, beside him, didn't seem irritated by his brother's boldness. His eyes, hard and cold, narrowed with only a flicker of interest.
"Do as you wish."
he replied, his voice deep and indifferent.
"Just finish it quickly. I want to be back in the warmth of my cell before the day is over."
There was no passion in his words, only pragmatism. He didn't seek glory, only to gauge the enemy. Curiosity, yes, but never enough to risk fighting without first knowing the adversary's true strength.
The contrast between the two brothers was as clear as that of their beasts: Heinrich burned with arrogance and venom, thirsting for the honor of drawing first blood; Friedrich, patient as stone, waited for the North to reveal its hand before showing his own.
The personalities of their wyverns overflowed in every gesture, as if rider and beast shared the same traits.
Heinrich's scorn echoed across the plain. Even the watching soldiers held their breath. Pavel's gaze, atop his golden-veined bear, gleamed in response. He didn't need to fully understand the language of the Empire. He had lived long enough, fought long enough, to feel the insult in the tone.
The veins on Stribog's neck throbbed, a low growl reverberating like thunder trapped in the creature's chest. Pavel, however, did not rise to it. His eyes remained steady, unbreakable, as if the insult had only solidified his resolve.
"Very well."
the general's voice came like a boulder rolling down a mountain.
"Then it's decided."
He turned to Ivan. No words were needed: just a brief tilt of the head. The giant nodded, stepping away with heavy strides, immediately understanding Pavel's burning desire.
The field was set. The duel, sealed.
Tension exploded in the silence of the classroom. Every eye was fixed on the magical projection as Friedrich stepped away like the giant, leaving the field open for the old Pavel and Heinrich. The world seemed to hold its breath.
At the center of the plain, man and beast began to circle each other, analyzing like predators aware of the risk in making the first move. The wyvern broke the calm first: its jaws snapped open and a jet of dark green venom shot through the air, hissing before being deflected by the giant halberd and striking the ice. The ground roared under the impact, the venom burning and dissolving the snow until toxic vapors rose like specters in the wind.
Pavel yanked the reins of his golden bear. The creature surged forward, and the old man raised the halberd. With a precise spin, he dodged another deadly jet that exploded behind them in a choking cloud. The bear's roar thundered, each step shaking the frozen field. With a sweeping strike, the halberd's blade tore through the wyvern's wing, ripping off scales and releasing a viscous gush of greenish blood.
Heinrich didn't hesitate. He drew a whip tipped with metal, cracking it through the air like a split thunderclap. The steel coiled around Pavel's shoulder, slicing through armor like paper and staining the snow red. With a swift spin, the young man raised a percussion pistol. Just one shot. It had to be fatal. He aimed at the bear's head — a large, close target, impossible to miss.
The shot rang out like thunder swallowed by the mountains. But at the final moment, Pavel pulled the reins. The bullet veered from the skull and struck the creature's neck. The bear roared in agony, staggered — but did not fall.
The wyvern seized Pavel's opening and struck with its tail, hurling the old man to the frozen ground. The impact made the earth quake. The halberd slid far from reach, and for a moment, Pavel seemed defeated.
Heinrich smiled arrogantly. He leapt from his beast, drawing a short sword in one hand and holding the whip in the other. Steel rang out, ready for the final blow. But the old man, bleeding, drew a dagger from his belt and rose quickly. The duel resumed on the ice: steel clashing against steel, sparks flying, the whip cracking like a snake trying to snare his arm.
With a leap, Heinrich created distance; the old man's strikes were heavy, and even that was easy to read — the whip was his greatest advantage. He lashed it out, coiling it around the old man's leg and yanking him to the ground once more. The young man advanced, sword raised, ready for the final strike.
That's when the bear roared. Even wounded, it charged with the force of an avalanche. The colossal paw hit Heinrich squarely, throwing him against a block of ice. The impact shattered bones; the air left his lungs in a silent scream.
The wyvern, seeing its bondmate felled on the ice, shrieked deafeningly and surged forward in desperation. Venom spewed from its throat in green jets, burning the air and frozen ground, turning snow into toxic vapor. But that uncontrolled fury was exactly what the old bear had been waiting for.
With a speed that defied its massive size, the bear dodged the winged beast's reckless lunge and, with a single leap, sank its jaws into the exposed neck of its enemy. The roar that followed wasn't just a sound — it was a thunderclap of pain that echoed across the plain.
A wyvern's long neck had never been considered a weakness. Its thick scales repelled even bullets. But Stribog's teeth were no ordinary teeth. They were living blades, fangs forged to tear flesh and break bone. The armor split with a dry crack; the skin opened in rivulets of greenish blood. Nerves, veins, and flesh were destroyed until the fangs reached the bone.
The entire field held its breath as the bear shook the creature from side to side like a ragdoll. The wyvern fought back, its claws carving gashes into the bear's flesh, its tail whipping, tearing shards of ice and blood from the ground. But nothing — nothing — made those jaws release.
Then came the sound.
A guttural, brutal crack echoed like a shattered thunderclap: the neck bone breaking.
The wyvern's high-pitched scream ceased instantly. The winged beast collapsed, limp, as the bear roared its triumph to the sky while still swinging the creature in its jaws. The scene was so cruel, primal, and powerful that even the stone wyvern watching from afar took a step back, as if the creature itself understood it stood before something beyond a mere magical beast.
In the classroom, some students covered their ears, others raised hands to their mouths, pale. The shock was real, as though the roar had pierced not just the magical image, but time and space itself.
On the ice, Heinrich lay paralyzed. His wide eyes watched his creature — his pride, his weapon, his life — reduced to nothing more than a ragdoll. The pain of the bond seared through his body, every spasm of the dying wyvern mirrored in his own flesh.
"You have no honor… you barbarian. Our fight was man to man. I even abandoned my creature…"
Heinrich was in shock. He had never seen anyone so cowardly as to resort to their beast's aid just to survive. But now, all that remained inside him was fear.
For the first time, Heinrich understood why the elders said the beasts of the North were not mere animals — they were monsters.
After all, his creature had died with such ease it hardly seemed like the divinized beast of the Empire.
How could something exist strong enough to kill a Winged Beast with sheer brute force?
He regretted every decision as he screamed incoherent words — through spit, blood, and a pain that pierced both body and mind. His eyes widened in panic as he saw Pavel stumbling toward him.
The halberd was recovered. Heinrich saw him stop in front of him — not with hatred, nor fury, much less pity. There was only indifference.
"On the battlefield, boy… there is no room for arrogance. I hope everyone I face is as stupid as you."
Pavel gave him no chance to defend himself. Even that was denied to him. The blade came down, splitting Heinrich's skull like a dry coconut, splattering brain matter across the bloodstained snow.
Even after death, Pavel raised the halberd again — now not to celebrate, but to further profane the corpse.
Heinrich's body was cut in half. Blood, bone, and viscera exploded against the snow. A deathly silence fell over the plain. There was no doubt: Pavel and his bear were the victors.
In the classroom, no one breathed. Even the magical image seemed to tremble.
The old man, bloodied and staggering, did not retreat. With near-superhuman effort, he mounted the bear's back once more. The beast — once imposing in white and gold — was now as mutilated as its master: fur stained bright red, chunks of fat and exposed flesh hanging like banners of pain. Even so, its gaze remained impassive, firm, a perfect reflection of the serene fury burning in Pavel's eyes.
Each step Stribog took across the snow resounded like a funeral drum, and the blood flowing from his wounds fell in thick drops, painting the white ground with crimson embers. Pavel held the halberd again, the weapon's weight seeming like a natural extension of his body, even as it trembled with pain and exhaustion.
When he raised his head, his voice did not come as a shout, but as a distant thunder — hoarse and laden with centuries. It crossed the plain and shattered the absolute silence, reaching Friedrich — who still stared, incredulous, at his brother's brutal death.
"Come, boy…"
he said, spitting blood along with the words.
"Now it's your turn."
The words were not merely a summons. They were a challenge spat with the weight of centuries.
The silence that followed seemed to scream louder than any roar. Even the icy wind ceased for an instant. The old man's audacity caught everyone by surprise. It made no sense. He had already won. He could retreat, lick his wounds, prepare for another day. But there he stood, more wounded and more alive than ever, ready to face a second winged foe — as if pain itself were fuel.
On the students' faces in the classroom, shock was absolute. Some were pale; others stared wide-eyed, unable to blink. Lena, so attentive to the language of the North, even doubted whether she had understood correctly. Maybe she had mistranslated. Maybe it was madness. But no — the light in the old man's eyes left no room for doubt.
"Madmen…"
someone whispered from the back of the room.
And the word took shape, repeated by others until it echoed like a muffled chorus.
Madmen.
That was the only explanation.
The people of the North were not merely resilient, nor merely stubborn. They were something beyond that — something no one in the Empire's cities could understand. They did not retreat before death. On the contrary, it seemed that the closer they were to it, the stronger they became.
For the youths of the capital, raised on order and reason, this was inconceivable. But there, before the crystalline projection, they were seeing it with their own eyes: the essence of the Bears and their tamers was not to win — it was to challenge the impossible, even if it cost them their lives.