"Why does everyone seem to be looking at me?" — asked Nikolai, biting into what seemed to be a meat-filled bun.
It was crude in technique, but not in taste.
Ashen loved it from the very first bite, although Nikolai was almost certain that anything with meat would be enough to please him.
It was hard to ignore the constant stares around them — as if something had happened that turned him into a firefly in the dead of night.
Kuzma let out an amused grunt.
"Because not much happens around here, kid.
Every year, this event brings some kind of surprise — and honestly, these events are the highlight of the year for many folks here.
But I must admit: something this strange… only happened, what…"
Kuzma seemed to search his memory for a moment clearly long past.
"About eight years ago, I think.
I believe it was the case with Vladislav."
"Bah!" — retorted an elderly woman with silver hair and thick braids, though her eyes were sharp.
Beside her, a blue bear, its muzzle already whitening, sniffed the air in confusion.
"A little fireworks show shouldn't be that unusual! After all, this year we had two indigos and a violet — and still, people only care about our newcomer.
Hey! Stop staring and mind your own business!"
She shouted, glaring at the onlookers watching their table.
Nikolai gave a nervous smile, but Kuzma merely raised his hand.
"Ekaterina, they're not going to stop staring.
After all, until they figure out what the rookie is really capable of, they'll keep watching — like rats circling the cheese.
The best already picked the girls… and that grump.
What's left for them is the boy here.
We're not the best group around, so of course they'll be waiting for an opportunity."
Kuzma pulled from inside his coat a worn-out map, its edges frayed by time and calloused hands. He spread it out on the table.
"Now, changing the subject… here's what we've mapped over the last twenty years.
Our group managed to cover nearly eighty percent of the first floor… and about thirty percent of the second."
Nikolai leaned in. The shock hit like a punch: lines, tunnels, massive chambers. The labyrinth seemed to stretch beneath the entire Northern territory, winding its way almost to Medved.
Nikolai was still confused as to why Kuzma's group rarely ventured below the third floor. At first, he thought it was due to the stronger creatures on the lower levels, but as Kuzma spoke and showed the map, he finally understood.
"This is… way too big."
"Yeah." — replied a third voice, deep, coming from a bearded man with broad shoulders and features marked by age.
His brown bear — smaller than average, maybe about one meter thirty tall — stared at Ashen with curiosity.
"There's fauna and flora beneath the ice.
They grow far from the cold.
That's bad… but it's also good.
Bad, because it forces us to go down.
But it's good, since most creatures hardly ever come up to hunt.
Down there, even the strongest monsters hate the cold from up here.
At the same time, the first floor has an enormous biodiversity.
On it, you can find almost everything that exists in the four floors below — of course, in smaller quantities and more scattered around.
Interestingly, because of this variety, the first floor is considered more dangerous than the second — and, I dare say, maybe even more than the third.
After all, it's where most of the mistakes happen."
"My God, everyone! Sorry, did I miss something?"
A woman, her beauty aged but still proud, appeared breathless. On her chest, strapped to an open backpack, a tiny white bear no more than twenty centimeters tall peeked at the group with attentive eyes.
"No, no. You arrived just in time, thanks for the help.
We were explaining the map to our new member."
"Nice to meet you. Nikolai."
The woman smiled, adjusting the small bear the way one would settle a child.
"Oh, I know who you are."
Her smile turned melancholic for a moment.
"Sorry, I'm Daria Petrov. And this is Kira. Say hi, little one."
The white bear tilted his head and lowered his snout in an almost human-like greeting. Ashen stood up, responding with a low, friendly growl, and little Kira seemed satisfied.
For a moment, Nikolai felt something rare: a sense of belonging.
Nikolai was still trying to get used to all the new faces when Kuzma took him to the second floor. He then discovered that this level wasn't just where the rankings were displayed and meals eaten: it was also the social heart of the tamers.
A bar made of stone and wood occupied one side of the area. At dinner time, the smell of grilled meat and warm bread mixed with the sweat and smoke from torches. The food was expensive, each dish costing more than a week's work in Medved, but Kuzma didn't hesitate to pay for Nikolai.
"Now that everyone's finally here, let's have a little celebration."
The old man said it as the attendant set down another steaming plate before them, with some burgers.
It didn't take long for the alcohol to start hitting everyone's heads, and truths began to be spilled as if they were mere formalities.
Nikolai was surprised to find out that Kuzma's group had never had rookies. They had been complete for years — united like a family. Perhaps that's why they didn't hide anything about their lives and actually behaved like one.
Nikolai couldn't even remember the last time he felt something like that. It was magical, nostalgic — in a way he couldn't even describe.
His arrival seemed to energize the group. Not just because of the novelty, but for what it symbolized: fresh blood. Or, as they liked to say, new stories, new dreams and desires.
Things in Svarog weren't easy, and what drove the raiders wasn't just money. After all, as Kuzma had told Nikolai: money alone wasn't enough to keep the mind sane in that place.
You needed something more. Some kind of flame.
A desire strong enough to warm frozen hearts.
Andrei, the tank. A man with broad shoulders, scars crisscrossing his arms like maps of ancient battles. Always by his side was Laika, the brown bear with a size below average for her species who served as his tank. Together, they were the front line — the shield against anything that came from the dark. He was respected and playful, and his only dream was to become a father — and as cheesy as that might sound, his gray beard gave him the right to want it, for age was fast approaching.
His wife, Ekaterina, was different: slim, with a calculating gaze.
Her power didn't come from muscles, but from a steady flow of mana.
She didn't master advanced magic, but handled everything basic and intermediate with precision — both offensive and defensive. It was enough to strengthen her husband or crush enemies when needed.
Unlike her husband, however, she seemed to have a deep aversion to the idea of having children.
It took many bottles of alcohol before something more concrete slipped from her lips — and when it finally did, the reason became clear.
She had lost, still in the womb, the child of the man she loved.
Some wounds leave deeper marks than others.
And there are marks that surpass all others.
Kuzma Petrov was the thread that held them all together. Strategist, mapper, leader.
He was good with swords and medium-range weapons, but above all, he was the "do-it-all" — the man who knew where to strike, when to retreat, and which shortcuts could save lives.
Kuzma was reserved, direct in his answers. No symbolic truth had ever left his mouth — and, for Nikolai, that wasn't necessary. Everything he needed to know, he had learned from Vadim, his wife.
Kuzma had fought all his life to raise his only son… only to see him die in the Berlóga, during the selection process.
Nikolai still clearly remembered Vadim's screams of despair when she found out. It was then that he truly understood what it meant not to be chosen. Her tears echoed in his memory for many nights.
One night, he brought firewood to their house. Kuzma was in Svarog. It was an especially cold night.
Nikolai remembered the moment she answered the door — the look on her face, the knife in her hand.
He knew what she wanted to do. He already recognized that look.
He himself had carried her through many nights, until he understood that hatred for the world didn't heal pain… it only prolonged it.
But it was the light he lit that night, and the conversation about the future and dreams, that deepened the bond between them.
Nikolai knew that Vadim treated him almost like a son. And he liked that.
On one hand, he didn't feel so alone. On the other, he comforted a grieving mother.
In the end, what truly saved Vadim was having another child.
Something that, to Nikolai, was clearly something Kuzma never wanted — but had to accept.
His sister, Daria, was the group's healer.
A woman with a firm voice but soft hands.
Nikolai was certain that, with her white bear — a deviated one, clearly specialized in healing magic — she could have been in any group in the North.
But it was evident how averse she was to taking a life.
Her few words always revolved around preservation and symbiosis between species — something Andrei had ironically tried to contradict by showing off his sword and explaining the "symbiosis" he'd had with a creature a few weeks earlier.
Daria was a simple woman with principles.
In the end, she chose to join through blood ties.
It was clear that glory and fame weren't her goals.
Even after much drinking, she remained who she had always been — focused, calm.
Nikolai suspected she even used healing magic to cure her own drunkenness.
And then… there was him.
Nikolai, the rookie.
The place that had fallen to him was the rearguard — long-range support.
Previously occupied by Vadim, who had left the group when her hands no longer responded firmly to bow and crossbow.
Now, it would be up to him to protect the veterans from afar.
As he ate, Nikolai reflected on the people around him.
They were like him: wounded, marked, lost in some spectrum of pain.
The North was a master of sad stories — after all, the North is an almost uninhabitable place, hostile to life itself.
Ekaterina and Andrei had had a child… but never saw it born.
The scars of that loss had pushed them into a life made only of war.
Daria, who never found someone worthy of sharing her life, carried peaceful convictions in a world that treated peace as weakness.
Kuzma and Vadim lost their only son during the Vybor ritual — never chosen by a bear, and thus, condemned.
Since then, Kuzma had promised never to bring another child into the world.
But even that, fate made sure to undo.
The group was old.
Weaker in brute force than the young ones competing for the top rankings.
But what they lacked in muscle, they made up for in experience and synergy.
And in the North, sometimes, that was worth more than any strength.
They were never medal-wearing heroes.
Never made it to the top of the rankings or even close to the highest-rated.
But they had never lost anyone.
And to Nikolai, that was already more impressive than any well-qualified name.
"Okay, guys, but how are we going to do this? I mean… does he have any experience with long-range weapons?" — asked Andrei, crossing his arms like a wall.
"Of course not, love." — replied Ekaterina, without losing her sweetness. — "But according to the rules, he has the right to use the rehearsal room for free at least once."
"Rehearsal room?" — Nikolai raised his eyebrows.
Kuzma leaned over the table, voice low, almost conspiratorial:
"I thought that lunatic wouldn't mention it."
His eyes sparkled at the mention of Marina Sobolev.
"Actually, all new students have the right to use a training projection system.
What I know is that this artifact is ancient.
So ancient that even my father used to talk about it.
If I had to guess, I'd say it's as old as these stones you feel beneath your feet.
Well… I really have no idea how it works — I never had the chance to use it.
But one thing I do know:
when you're in there, time slows down.
In practice, a single real day equals about seven in there."
Nikolai felt a chill run over his skin. Seven days in one.
Train for a week but only spend a day.
It was almost… cheating.
"Normally, it was insanely expensive. Only the rich or the most promising could afford it." — Kuzma went on.
"When we arrived in Svarog, unfortunately it wasn't available for rookies.
But, after so many deaths, they eventually made an exception.
Of course, it's still extremely expensive — but at least, now rookies can use it once.
The idea is to give them a basic and realistic foundation of what it's like down there…
…without death being permanent.
In fact, I already asked my sister to schedule your session."
Daria smiled, satisfied.
"Anyway, as you probably know, my wife was a specialist in long-range weapons — specifically in bow and crossbow." — said Kuzma firmly.
"I'm not going to ask you to train exactly like she did, but our entire strategy is based on that structure.
If you choose another path, I won't stop you. But I also won't be able to keep you on the team.
I need cohesion, not loose parts."
The honesty hit Nikolai harder than any order. Kuzma wasn't like Marina. He spoke for the good of the team, not out of vanity or personal strength.
Nikolai took a deep breath and nodded.
"I understand. I want to help. I'm new and I have no experience with this kind of weapon, but I'll do my best."
Kuzma then gave a rare smile and pulled something from his coat: a small rod of polished wood, no larger than the palm of a hand.
"My wife asked me to give this to you… in case you agreed to stay with the group." — said Kuzma, placing the object in Nikolai's hand.
"I bought it for her myself when we took down our first Leshiy."
Something seemed to fill old Kuzma's mind for a moment, but he quickly shook his head, pushing the memory away.
"Anyway… press here."
There was a raised part in the center.
Nikolai pressed it.
Immediately, the wood vibrated in his hand. It snapped, grew, expanded like a root seeking light. In seconds, the rod extended into a sleek bow, and in place of the string appeared a shimmering thread of pure energy.
The entire table watched in silence.
"Well, look at that… at least the boy seems to have mana in his body." — said Ekaterina, clapping with a sincere smile.
Nikolai's heart raced.
It was the first time someone had given him something that wasn't charity, but trust.
"Unfortunately, Vadim couldn't generate the bow's magic string, so we adapted it with interwoven Alkonost feathers." — explained Kuzma, pulling out a thin, multicolored thread, clearly made by fusing many feathers until it became as strong as a small rope.
"Arrows can be formed with your own mana, by pulling the light string. But honestly, I don't recommend it.
Until you know how much magic you actually have available, I suggest using the Alkonost string and training with standard arrows.
It'll be better that way — not cheap, but safer."
Daria looked at her brother, worried.
"He needs to be there in no more than twenty minutes."
Kuzma nodded, getting up.
"Then let's go, kid. We scheduled the rehearsal room as early as we could, so we have to go now."
Nikolai noticed the look exchanged between the siblings and understood the message: the time had come — he'd rest later.
"We'll be waiting for you." — said Daria, firmly. — "Do your best. You won't feel hunger or thirst in there, but that doesn't mean you won't get tired. Remember to rest between training sessions."
He nodded, finishing the burger with effort. He tried to smile, to exchange a few final words with the veterans, but deep down he knew: in that place, it would be just him and Ashen.
Kuzma led him in silence. They climbed for nearly twenty minutes to the top floor of Svarog, running up narrow staircases to a corridor where heavy doors lined up in rows. There, the air felt different — thin, saturated with mana.
"Sorry for doing all this on the same day you arrived." — said Kuzma, with a quiet sigh. — "But it was the only way to make sure you didn't lose the room. The rookies are still settling in, but most likely, by tomorrow there won't be any time slots left. Maybe not even for the rest of the week."
Nikolai felt the weight of the words. Meeting the team, drinking, being taken to the top floor — everything had happened in just a few hours. He hadn't even had time to see his room.
Still, he understood. It was clear everything there functioned in a practical and direct way.
Kuzma's team, not being the strongest, couldn't afford long or risky incursions — they made up for it with volume. Many small, easy, and constant missions.
What they lacked in strength, they also lacked in time.
Even the one day he'd spend inside the room meant less food, fewer supplies — fewer chances to survive.
Kuzma was a man who played it safe. Always.
He didn't see Nikolai merely as an investment — he saw a key piece in his hunting strategy, someone essential to keeping the group functional. He needed him. That's why everything had to happen as fast as possible, but also in the safest way.
Nikolai understood that this wasn't blind ambition. If it were, the group would've already descended into Svarog without even giving him time to prepare. But Kuzma was smart. He knew that, for things to work, time had to be invested — even when that resource was scarce.
After all, as he himself had said while running up the stairs toward the summit:
"Nine women don't make a baby in one month."
Time was necessary. To train, refine, and, within reason, deliver the best result with the little one had.
Nikolai admired Kuzma's clarity. But the more he reflected on the composition of that group — uneven and underpowered — the more he was amazed that no one had died in so many years.
Two black bears with no magic.
One brown, weaker compared to others of its kind.
A blue one without significant magical strength.
And a white one focused solely on healing, with no offensive magic.
It was almost unbelievable.
The only plausible explanation was that someone there compensated for all those weaknesses with strategy, calculation, and intelligence.
Kuzma, in the end, was easy to define.
A great leader.
When they finally reached the top floor, Nikolai was met with an imposing presence.
An old woman awaited them: tall, slender, dressed in black robes adorned with silver embroidery. Beside her stood a bear like no other — its fur a deep, almost shimmering blue, and eyes that seemed to gaze beyond time.
"Don't stare too long." — Kuzma murmured, almost inaudibly. — "She's the head of the attendants. Try not to anger her."
The woman turned her gaze to Nikolai, assessing him like someone weighing the worth of a counterfeit coin.
"You must be the commoner… with friends."
The words fell like stone.
Nikolai hesitated.
"I think so… I came to—"
"I know why you're here." — she interrupted, coldly. — "Head to door twelve. I'll add my mana myself. I hope you help your group as much as they helped you."
She passed by Kuzma, and the old man bowed in respect. There was no challenge in his eyes, only recognition: that woman exuded authority and fear like an unavoidable perfume.
Nikolai swallowed hard. He didn't know exactly who she was, but he could feel it: in Svarog, that figure carried more power than any official title.
When he reached the indicated door, her voice sliced through the air like a blade:
"Get in, boy. I'm not going to wait forever."
The runes carved into the wood pulsed in a deep blue, and the cold handle seemed to pull the very skin from his hand.
Ashen growled low, as if sensing the weight of what lay beyond.
Nikolai took a deep breath.
And crossed the threshold.