Nikolai moved forward without hesitation along the citadel's ledge. His classroom was not far from his destination — he only needed to descend a few meters to reach a structure carved directly into the mountain.
The symbol above the entrance might once have held meaning, but now it was nothing more than two crossed swords — misshapen and meaningless. Even so, it made clear what took place within.
From the outside, the building resembled a modest stone dwelling. But inside, the space opened downward — a vast hall torn from the heart of the mountain. The walls bore the marks of time: deep grooves, angular cuts, traces of the ancient tools that had carved the rock stone by stone. Each line was a testament to the hidden grandeur of the place.
At the center lay the arena: a dome of bluish stone sunk five meters below ground level, forming something like a shadowed koilon*. Semicircular rows carved into the rock were draped with thick furs and feathers, crude seats for those who came to witness the spectacle.
The air was heavy — dense with the scent of old sweat, screams that still lingered in the stones, and memories that refused to die.
The smooth blue floor bore dark red stains — not mere marks, but scars. Each one whispered the same story: here, fights were not for sport. They were for remembrance. For proof. For survival.
This was only one of many such places in Medved — strongholds where honor was tested, debts were paid, and grudges bled out.
In the Gulag, there were no beasts, no weapons, no armor. Only men — stripped to their instinct. It was a place for settling things. Nothing more.
Nikolai descended the stone steps, one by one, until he reached the arena's center. He stopped directly over a dark red stain. That mark knew him well — a scar from days past, a silent witness to his stubbornness.
"I will be merciful today and use only my arms!"
Oleg's voice thundered as he leapt down from the stands, arrogance radiating from every movement.
"Do as you wish," Nikolai replied, calm as ever — the calm of a man who had long made pain a habit.
Something burned in his chest. Not anger. Not fear. Something older — familiarity. He knew the rhythm of blows, the taste of blood, the sound of fists breaking silence. His body was a map of bruises, but today, perhaps, would be different.
Oleg charged without warning.
The crowd, still roaring in the stands, fell instantly silent, afraid to blink and miss a moment.
The first punches echoed through the hall — sharp, merciless, bone against bone. It was brutal.
Nikolai did not retreat. He never did. He didn't block — he traded.
Every blow Oleg landed found an answer: ribs, stomach, jaw, wherever Nikolai could reach.
Three exchanges. Then four.
Oleg had more strength — that much was certain.
But Nikolai refused to yield.
And that defiance only made the crowd burn louder.
Whispers rippled through the stands.
"It's going to happen now."
"No way… is he really going to do it?"
"Of course he is. That stubborn bastard never backs down. If there's someone more resilient than him, I don't know them. Honestly? I'd have given up already."
After a few brutal exchanges, the moment came — as it always did.
Oleg, blood smeared across his lips, lost control. Fury twisted his face into something feral.
Nikolai, by contrast, was composed — cold, distant. Though clearly more injured, he remained unshaken.
His black eye watched with calculated detachment; the blue one burned with restrained fury.
Then it happened.
The kick came — straight at the wooden brace.
The crack was dry, dreadful.
Nikolai stumbled. He hit the ground hard, crashing against Oleg's knee with a sickening thud that reverberated through the arena. The air froze.
"Did he kill him this time?"
"No… look — he's still breathing. His chest is moving."
Oleg bent down, face contorted in pain and rage. Without hesitation, he ripped from Nikolai's neck a piece of the wooden brace, now soaked in blood.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Oleg raised his arms in triumph — but there was no applause. Only silence, heavy and suffocating.
He knew why.
Everyone did.
How many times had he used that same cruel advantage? How many times had he kicked at the wood that held Nikolai upright, turning every duel into a mockery of combat?
It was victory, yes — but not conquest.
Oleg hated Nikolai.
He hated that serene face — calm even in pain. He hated the mismatched eyes that drew every glance, and the persistence that refused to die. But deep down, beneath the hatred, there was something else.
Respect.
His entire body ached; each muscle screamed from the punishment of their exchange. He knew his blows had been stronger — twice as strong, maybe more — yet he was the one left with the bitter taste of defeat.
He turned once more toward the boy lying motionless on the blood-stained floor. There was something unsettling about the sight — as if even unconscious, Nikolai still refused to surrender.
Oleg clenched his jaw and lowered his arms. Raising his hand brought no triumph, only a heavier burden. The taste of victory, for him, was always bitter.
When the fight ended, silence filled the space where the shouts had been.
The arena emptied, slowly and indifferently, until the boy's body became part of the scenery — another mark on the stone. As unmoving as the walls that had witnessed everything.
No one stopped.
No one looked back.
Nikolai's name was already beginning to fade from the minds of his classmates.
And perhaps that was for the best.
It is easier to forget the dead before they die.
Cold water struck Nikolai's face, dragging him back to consciousness. He gasped and jolted upright, heart pounding.
"I'm still here…"
The words came out half-breathed, as if he needed to convince himself.
"The fight's over, kid," a deep voice echoed. "You lost… again. Get up already. I need to clean the floor. Again."
"Sorry, Mr. Alexei, I just—"
"Let me guess," the old man interrupted, one eyebrow raised, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You tripped and hit your chin on the floor… again?"
"Yes, sir."
Nikolai pushed himself up with effort. The wood of his prosthetic leg groaned beneath his weight — weakened by days of punishment and Oleg's latest blow. Each step was a small rebellion against gravity.
Still, he refused any help.
Alexei watched him with weary eyes — eyes that had seen wars, walls crumble, and men devoured by snow. He had lived too long to believe in miracles.
Finally, he spoke.
"Trading punches with someone stronger than you isn't a smart choice."
He didn't say it as a reprimand, but as a fact — a truth carved by time. And yet, even he could not ignore the thought that if not for that damned leg, Nikolai might have stood a chance. Not because of skill or strength, but because of his persistence — his hatred — admirable and foolish in equal measure.
"What choice do I have?" the boy muttered, wiping the blood from his back.
Alexei didn't answer. He didn't need to. Everyone already knew.
Nikolai's only choice was to get up every day and face the wall that crushed him — even if it meant breaking his fists against the stone until there was nothing left but splintered bone.
He no longer waited for Alexei's pity.
As he had done countless times before, he left without a word, without explanation, without asking for help.
Out there, away from his classmates' eyes, he allowed himself to walk as he truly was — hunched, limping, broken. No witnesses. No judgment. Only the slow rhythm of pain echoing through the empty corridors.
After all, he still had to make it home.
Alexei stood watching from the doorway, his expression unreadable.
"Does he have any chance?"
The question came out barely above a whisper — and faded just as quickly. A foolish thought, perhaps, born of a tired man's stubborn hope — the kind that roots for the doomed, even when reason says otherwise.
He shook his head and went back to cleaning.
At the foot of the mountain, beneath the nobility's towers, sprawled the main village — a gray stain against the white of the snow.
The houses clung to a narrow plain where the sun rarely reached; the eternal shadow of the upper wall allowed only a few timid hours of light each day.
It was a filthy place, ravaged by cold and neglect. Everything no longer useful to those above ended up below: torn clothes, spoiled scraps, and worst of all, the nobles' waste. Barrels dumped from the heights turned alleys into foul-smelling rivers that mixed with frozen mud.
Finding beauty there was nearly impossible. Children's laughter, when it dared exist, sounded like an affront to misery itself. The air smelled of sweat, smoke, and blood. Trade was reduced to barter — firewood for bread, dried meat for a torn blanket.
And yet, the village endured, fueled by the rage of being the ground others walked upon, and by a fragile hope — the dream of ascension offered by the ritual of youth.
Nikolai finally stopped before a worn wooden door. The lock had been broken for years, but there was nothing to protect. Nothing of value lived there.
He took a deep, muffled breath — each inhalation a return to some distant place: life, light, laughter, happiness. Memories that no longer belonged to him.
He pushed the door open. The creak echoed through the silence, revealing only darkness and solitude. Reality struck him like a block of ice — pure and beautiful pasts always seemed to rot in this cold, cruel world.
"Well… I'm home."
His voice disappeared into the gloom.
He crossed the room to the corner, where three uneven planks held up a battered pot. He lit a small fire, its flames weak but stubborn. When the liquid inside began to bubble, a sour smell filled the room — thick, acrid, unfit for human life.
Still, Nikolai lifted the pot and drank. Each swallow was an act of defiance. His face twisted, but he kept going.
It was the taste of survival.
Later that night, a grating noise disturbed the stillness of a nearby house.
Shi... shi... shi...
The sound rasped through the quiet alley.
"What's that boy doing at this hour?" a man muttered, pulling the curtain from his small window.
"Darling… I think he's sanding his wooden leg again," his wife replied, her voice soft with compassion.
The man huffed.
"Again? For heaven's sake…"
But the woman was already standing.
"I'll take him some bread."
"Darling!" His whisper came out sharp, almost furious. "You need to stop being so soft! Wasting our bread on a corpse… You really think that boy will survive the ritual?"
Silence fell. The baby, swaddled atop a small silent beast, watched the exchange with wide, uncomprehending eyes.
Then the woman spoke, calm and firm — a tone that could still any storm.
"I owe it… to her."
The name was never spoken, but the man fell silent. His eyes wandered to memories he dared not recall. Finally, he grumbled and yielded.
"Go quickly. And come back quickly. These nights are dangerous — I have to leave for Svarog at dawn."
Shi... shi... shi...
In the flicker of the firelight, Nikolai worked, sweat glistening on his brow. He sanded the wooden leg carefully, layer by layer. The mold was never perfect, but each attempt brought improvement.
Once, he had limped grotesquely. Now, through practice, he could shape something that almost resembled the foot he'd lost. It offered neither speed nor strength — but at least it let him appear less broken.
Knock. Knock.
Few dared to knock on his door at such an hour. Nikolai grabbed the small pocketknife he used for carving and hid it beneath his coat. He fitted the half-finished leg and limped to the entrance.
"Who is it?"
"It's Vadin, Nikolai."
"Miss Vadin… I'm coming."
Almost hopping, he opened the door.
"What are you doing here at this hour? It's dangerous."
The woman smiled — steady, unafraid.
"Oh, boy, you don't know my husband. He'd probably beat half this neighborhood and kill the other half."
Nikolai managed a faint smile.
"That's true… Did something happen? Are you out of wood? I've got a few scraps left."
"Don't worry about that, child," Vadin said, unwrapping a clean cloth — a rarity in that place. "I brought this."
From within, she revealed a golden loaf of bread, still warm. Its scent filled the room, awakening a reflex older than reason: Nikolai's head tilted up, his nostrils flaring like a starving animal's.
"Really? I… I can't take this from you."
"Aha! Child, don't worry," she said, laughing softly. "As long as I have something to share, I will. Polina would've done the same for me."
The name fell heavy between them. Nikolai's silence said everything.
"I'm sorry," Vadin murmured, stepping back. "Here. And good luck tomorrow, boy. I'll be praying for you."
Nikolai took the bread awkwardly, his voice trembling.
"I'm the one who should apologize… thank you, Miss Vadin."
He closed the door slowly.
Alone, he bit into the bread. The taste was divine — but soon drowned in salt.
The tears came unbidden.
Because deep down, nothing had changed.
Inside, Nikolai was still just a child — hungry for affection.
Ancient semi-circular theater used for plays and music: koilon.