"There are many holes on the first level. Be careful not to get your metal foot stuck in any of them… understood?"
Vadim spoke in a firm tone, but her eyes betrayed genuine concern. With each word, she looked at Nikolai's embarrassed face, who tried to keep his composure in the face of the reprimand.
The boy didn't protest. On the contrary, he accepted the help with a discreet bow.
Olga stroked Ashen as if silently reinforcing the same lesson from Vadim.
Ashen, in turn, didn't seem embarrassed — on the contrary, he showed respect for the little black she-bear, who licked him without any shyness.
"No problem, Mrs. Vadim,"
he replied, nearly stumbling over his own words.
"I promise to protect your husband and the group."
In Vadim's gaze, there was something Nikolai always saw: care. She didn't speak like someone giving orders, but like someone who truly cared. And that feeling struck him deeper than he liked to admit.
"Yes, but you don't need to worry so much,"
Vadim continued.
"Everyone is stronger than you. So don't try anything risky. Down there is not like the simulation. Many people use those illusions as an excuse to think they're invincible… and end up dying because of it."
The words hung in the air, heavy. Before the mood grew darker, Kuzma approached, placing his hand on his wife's shoulder.
"Darling, don't worry,"
he said, with the calm only an experienced leader could carry.
"We'll stay on the first floor only. If needed, we'll team up with another clan again. Today will just be a test for our group."
Everyone understood the unspoken message: Nikolai was an unknown, and he needed to prove himself in the field.
Kuzma then gathered the group.
"Our objective today will be simple. Wedge formation."
Nikolai had already studied that formation the night before. It was Kuzma's favorite: Andrei advanced on the front line, a human shield of sheer brute strength. Kuzma and his bear, Gerasim, protected the left flank; Ekaterina, with her she-bear Mishka, and Laika, Andrei's she-bear, covered the right side with coordinated movements, preventing enemies from breaking through the line.
In the center, Daria and Kira stayed protected, ensuring magical support and vital backup.
Further back, Nikolai and Ashen occupied the rearguard, acting as a bridge between ranged attacks and emergency support for Daria — in case any enemy managed to breach any side of the formation.
It was a solid strategy, but it only worked with absolute trust. And Nikolai was still the unstable piece.
When they left Svarog Tower and entered the gray plain, the landscape swallowed them like a wave of silence. The ground was dry and rough, covered in ancient ashes that rose in clouds with each step. Everything seemed dead, and the heavy air smelled of oxidized iron.
Andrei, always imposing, carried on his back the white standard marked with the emblem of a bear divided into four colors — a reflection of the group's multifaceted nature, composed of all known types.
That type of formation wasn't rare… but it wasn't respected either.
The most prestigious groups kept their lineage pure: only white, only brown, or more commonly, only blue. There was strength in uniformity. Mixed groups were generally seen as a sign of disorganization — or desperation.
But that standard wasn't just a symbol.
It carried a peculiar magic: when planted at the level's entrance, it maintained a link with the surface. It would be their banner, their seal… and the only connection between those who entered and those who stayed behind.
The standard's magic didn't protect anyone. It didn't heal wounds, didn't prevent deaths. But it revealed the group's fate. White meant integrity. If a member fell, it turned yellow, and with each new loss, its color darkened, until it reached deep red. Black was the final sentence: the group was dead.
Nikolai swallowed hard upon understanding the cruel simplicity behind the group identification mechanism.
The standard didn't serve to prevent tragedies — only to inform the world that they had already happened.
Even so, it was the only promise that, if something went wrong, maybe another group would come to the rescue.
And that maybe… depended on many things.
Money was, without a doubt, the most important.
"I'll talk to Rodion,"
said Kuzma, already walking away from the group.
"His team is the only one not going down today. But…"
he narrowed his eyes.
"That son of a bitch usually only accepts upfront payment."
Nikolai noticed the tone of resignation.
In Svarog, people had started to realize that the standard — created only to signal that a group was dying — could also be profitable. That's how a secondary market emerged. Veteran teams, strong enough to no longer depend on daily hunts, saw a new opportunity: making money by watching over banners and offering rescue to groups in distress.
They didn't care about Svarog's original idea as a means of Northern subsistence. For them, there was a new purpose: patrol, monitor, and intervene — for the right price.
It was a simple service, with clear premises. But expensive. Very expensive.
The price seemed low at first: just one gold coin as a guarantee. But, if a rescue was needed, all the prey obtained by the team would be handed over to the saviors. Still, losing the spoils of the hunt was better than losing one's life.
"Kuzma, my dear friend!"
called out a hoarse voice as the leader approached one of the tents near the cave entrance.
"Here to renew the day?"
Rodion, huge as a tree trunk, opened a smile full of yellowed teeth.
"You know you're my most loyal client," Rodion said, grinning.
"Cut the small talk. Same price as always?" Kuzma replied coolly.
Rodion laughed, a harsh sound that echoed in the air.
"Always so cold… but yes, same as always, dear friend."
Nikolai watched from a distance, intrigued. The tent in question was simple, almost shabby, but guarded by two enormous, identical men — each over two meters tall. Beside them, lying like living shadows, two brown bears, bigger than any horse. The beasts easily exceeded two and a half meters, and their eyes conveyed nothing but hostility.
"Who are they?"
he murmured, unable to look away.
"The twins Rodion and Prokhor,"
Daria replied calmly, standing beside him.
"Old, arrogant… but strong. They've been here for as long as I can remember."
Nikolai frowned as he saw only five silver coins pass from Kuzma's hand. He clearly remembered: the minimum cost mentioned was one gold coin.
"Why does the price seem lower?"
"Because they really like my brother,"
said Daria, without changing her tone.
"They're longtime friends… I think. But that alone isn't enough. Kuzma has been dealing with them for years. And whether they like it or not, we've always brought them more profit than loss. Actually, I'm almost sure they see my brother as someone who's always brought easy money. For other groups, especially the younger or inexperienced ones… the price would undoubtedly be a gold coin."
Nikolai glanced to the sides. Three other tents stood nearby, all better maintained, full of people, gleaming weapons, and colorful banners. They looked like fortresses compared to the simplicity of the twins' tent.
"Why does theirs look so empty?"
"Because Rodion and Prokhor's group consists only of the two of them,"
Daria explained.
"And they only accept rescue missions on level one. For us, today, that's enough. It's worth securing the support. Many teams prefer not to arrange any rescue, but that's a rule my brother never breaks. In the end, it's the only guarantee we have if something goes wrong. As long as that protection exists… there can still be a tomorrow."
She paused briefly, her gaze lost for a moment.
"I imagine the desperation of the groups cornered without any deal…"
her voice dropped to almost a whisper.
"It must be terrifying."
Daria truly seemed shaken. The mere idea of being alone down there, with no real chance of help, with death as the only certainty… it visibly unsettled her.
"But… what if they don't help?"
asked Nikolai, uneasy.
"What guarantee do we have that they'll respond if our banner changes color?"
Daria gave a rare smile.
"That one's easy. Look up."
Nikolai followed her gesture. His eyes searched the top of Svarog… and then he remembered.
Up there, hovering above the walls, the colossal blue-flamed, lidless eye glowed among the heavy clouds, moving slowly as if probing every corner of the plain. It didn't blink, didn't rest. It simply watched — alert, absolute.
He shuddered.
"That eye… when we arrived, we saw it. But what is it really?"
"Don't worry,"
said Daria, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
"We call it the Observer."
"Observer?"
Nikolai repeated, still with his eyes fixed on the colossal orb of blue fire atop the tower.
"Yes. Among other functions they must have told you about, the one we like most is that it supervises all the standards. If something happens, it's the first to know."
Nikolai frowned. Now it started to make sense. Honestly, he didn't see himself getting in trouble with it — and yet, there was something unsettling about its presence. That immense, pulsating eye seemed as alive as a creature… but fixed, eternal, as if it were part of the wall itself.
Daria's explanation, however, felt incomplete. As if something essential was still being withheld.
Daria noticed his expression and added:
"Don't worry, you'll understand how it really works as the process unfolds."
The deal between Kuzma and the twins seemed finalized when one of the twins slowly stood up. The ground creaked under his weight, and the surrounding silence made Nikolai hold his breath. Without a word, he approached the white standard raised beside Kuzma's group.
With a swift gesture, he pulled a curved knife from his belt, slashing his own palm without hesitation. Blood ran down his fingers, thick and warm, dripping to the ground before being smeared across the fabric of the standard. The bright red stained the banner with an almost supernatural glow — as if the very magic recognized that silent pact.
At the top of the tower, the Observer moved.
The blue orb turned, fixing itself on Kuzma's banner. The pupil dilated and contracted in quick cycles, as if it were recording — or judging — what it had just witnessed. For a few brief seconds, everything seemed to stop.
And then, with one last, almost imperceptible adjustment, the eye returned to its constant vigil, ignoring what was happening around the cave.
But for Nikolai, the moment had been marked — as if some ancient, indescribable presence had just branded all those involved in something old and powerful.
"It's done,"
murmured Daria's voice.
"Now the Observer knows who the rescue group is. If something happens and they don't respond to the call… they'll be punished."
"And what's the punishment?"
asked Nikolai, swallowing hard.
Daria's face lit up with a brief, almost cruel smile.
"Here in the North we don't have many punishment options. I think you already know what it is."
"Death."
Nikolai answered without thinking.
The silence that followed confirmed his assumption. In the North, death was always the most practical answer: it saved food, space, and time.
Kuzma broke the grim mood by raising his voice.
"We're ready, everyone. Let's get going!"
Kuzma gave a quick wave to the brute returning to his tent, and the group gathered to hear the final instructions.
"Today we'll focus on hunting some Simargl on the first floor only,"
Kuzma explained.
"They're fetching a better price in the Medved market. And if we can't sell them for a good price…"
he scratched his beard.
"I spoke to the cook. He said that for half a carcass, he'll prepare whatever we bring."
"Wow… Stepan is being generous this week,"
commented Ekaterina, frowning.
"What could've happened to that old man?"
Andrei laughed, already chewing on something.
"I bet he's having an affair with some younger girl. That's the only explanation for such goodwill."
The laughter eased the tension, turning the group — for a few minutes — into ordinary companions around a table. Light conversation, discreet teasing, even a little hope floated in the air.
But everything changed when they reached the entrance of a cave. Nikolai was still trying to grasp the dynamics of the place, but as he stepped a little inside the cave, what appeared before him was what looked like a massive staircase.
The structure spiraled downward, wide enough for the passage of men and beasts, yet drowned in shadows that seemed to swallow every sound. The laughter died on everyone's lips. With each step toward the edge, the lightness of conversation was replaced by the weight of responsibility.
"Alright, focus now,"
ordered Kuzma.
"We're going in."
Vadim, who had accompanied the group up to that point, finally stopped. She stepped back in silence, but not without first casting Nikolai a look filled with concern.
"Don't worry, Mrs. Vadim,"
said Nikolai, forcing a smile.
"I'll be back soon."
Vadim didn't reply. She only nodded, like someone who truly believed in their own hopes.
As the group began descending the stairs, their steps echoed like war drums, and Vadim watched them vanish into the darkness.
And she wasn't the only one.
Above, far above them all, the great blue eye of the Observer followed every movement, fixing its strange and silent interest on that limping boy — still green, but destined for something even he couldn't comprehend.