Nikolai moved forward without hesitation across the citadel's ledge. His classroom wasn't far from his destination — he only needed to descend a good few meters until he reached a structure carved directly into the mountain. The symbol at the entrance might have once had some meaning, but today it was nothing more than two crossed swords — misshapen and meaningless. Even so, it was a clear sign of what happened inside. From the outside, it looked like a simple stone house. But inside, the space opened up in depth — a vast hall, forcibly ripped from the heart of the rock. The walls bore the marks of time: deep grooves, angular cuts, traces of the tools that had carved the mountain stone by stone. Each line was a testament to the hidden grandeur of the place. Inside, the arena rose: a dome of bluish stone, sunk five meters below ground level, forming something like a shadowy koilon*. Semicircular rows, carved directly into the rock, held thick furs and feathers, serving as seats for those who came to witness the spectacle. The air there was heavy — saturated with ancient sweat, with screams that still echoed in the stones, and with memories that refused to be silenced. At the center, the smooth blue stone floor bore dark red stains. They were not mere marks — they were scars. Each one seemed to tell the same story: here, the fight wasn't for entertainment. It was to make a mark. That place was just one among many in Medved — strongholds where scores were settled and inevitable confrontations took place, and where honor was cleansed... or lost. After all, some problems were best resolved in the heat of battle. In the Gulag, only the man entered. No beasts, no weapons or armor — only the raw, animal instinct to win or fall. The Gulag could be described in many ways, but one truth was absolute: It was a place for settling things. Period. Nikolai did not hesitate. He descended the stands one by one until he reached the center of the arena, stopping exactly over a red stain on the ground. 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 roared, descending the steps in one leap, full of arrogance.
— Do as you wish. — Nikolai replied, with the calm of someone who had long since made pain a habit.
Something burned in his chest. It wasn't anger, it wasn't fear: it was familiarity. He knew the blows, the pain, the rhythm of punches better than anyone. His body was a map of bruises — but that day could be different.
Oleg charged forward without ceremony. The crowd, still in uproar in the stands, suddenly sat down, as if afraid to miss a single moment. The punches echoed — sharp, direct. It was brutal. Nikolai, as always, did not back down. He didn't block. He preferred the exchange. Each of Oleg's blows came with a counter — to the ribs, the stomach, wherever he could land a hit. Three, four exchanges. Oleg had more strength, that was obvious. But Nikolai didn't yield, and that only inflamed the crowd further.
The voices whispered among the spectators:
— It's going to happen now.
— No way… is he really going to do it?
— Of course he is… that stubborn guy never backs down. If there's someone more resilient than him, I don't know them. And honestly? I would've done it already.
After a few exchanges, the moment came — as it always did.
Oleg, frustrated, his face twisted in a rictus of fury, lost his patience as blood dripped from his lips.
Nikolai, by contrast, seemed cold, almost distant. Even clearly more injured than Oleg, he remained unshaken throughout the exchanges.
The black eye watched with calculated coldness; the blue one reflected only restrained fury.
Then, finally, the kick came — straight at the wooden brace, throwing Nikolai off balance.
The crack was dry, awful. Nikolai collapsed hard against Oleg's knee, the impact reverberating through the arena. The crowd held its breath.
— Did he kill him this time?
— No… he's still breathing. Look at his chest.
Oleg bent down, his face deformed by pain and rage. And without any ceremony, he tore from Nikolai's neck a piece of wood soaked in blood.
No matter how high Oleg raised his arms in triumph, there was no applause. Only silence and heavy stares. He knew the reason — no one was truly with him. How many times had he used that same cruel advantage? How many times had he kicked the wood that supported Nikolai, reducing the fight to a disguised execution?
It was a victory, yes… but not a conquest.
Oleg hated Nikolai. Hated the serene face even in the face of pain, hated the mismatched eyes that drew attention, hated the unyielding persistence. But deep down, he also respected him. His whole body throbbed, every exchanged punch burned in his muscles, and he was certain: his blows were twice as strong. And still, he was the one left with the bitter taste of the fight.
He turned one last time, staring at the face of the boy lying unconscious on the stained ground. There was something disturbing in that image — as if Nikolai, even passed out, still refused to accept defeat.
Oleg clenched his teeth and lowered his arms. Raising his hand brought no glory, only a heavier burden. The taste of victory, for him, was always bitter.
When the fight ended, silence took the place of the screams.
The arena slowly emptied, and the body on the ground became part of the scenery — as still as the walls that surrounded him.
No one stopped. No one looked back.
Nikolai was a name already beginning to fade from the minds of everyone in his class.
And maybe that was for the best. It's easier to forget the dead before they die.
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Cold water snapped against Nikolai's face, yanking him out of his stupor. He jolted upright, gasping.
— I'm still here… — he muttered, trying to convince himself.
— The fight's over, kid. — a man's deep voice cut through the silence. — You lost… again. Get up already. I need to clean the floor. Again.
— Sorry, Mr. Alexei, I just…
— Let me guess. — the old man raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with sarcasm. — You tripped and hit your chin on the floor… again.
— Yes, sir.
Nikolai got to his feet with difficulty. The wood of his prosthetic leg creaked, weakened by daily strain and Oleg's blow. Every step felt like a challenge to gravity itself. Still, he refused any help. Alexei watched him with tired eyes — eyes that seemed to have seen wars, walls crumbling, and men devoured by snow far longer than he would have liked.
At last, he broke the silence.
— Trading punches with someone stronger than you isn't a smart choice.
He didn't say it as a reprimand, but as a statement. And even so, it remained surprising: if it weren't for that damn leg, if it weren't for the tragedy that had crippled him, Nikolai might have had a chance. Not because of technique or strength… but because of his persistence. His hatred. Admirable and foolish in equal measure.
— What choice do I have? — the boy shot back, wiping his back.
Alexei didn't answer. Because he knew. Because everyone knew.
Nikolai's only choice was to get up every day and face the wall of stone that crushed him. Even if it meant breaking his own fists until nothing was left but splintered bone.
Nikolai no longer waited for the old man's pity.
As so many times before, he left without explaining, without asking for help.
Unlike when he was among his classmates, now he walked hunched and in pain — with no one to witness or judge him, he allowed himself to walk how he truly needed to, in the only way that wouldn't kill him with suffering.
After all, he still had to get home.
As he limped away across the courtyard, Alexei watched him, intrigued.
— Does he have any chance?
The thought passed quickly, like childish stubbornness — the foolish hope of someone who insists on rooting for the underdog, even when the facts scream otherwise.
A shake of his own head was all he could give in response to the stupidity he had just uttered aloud.
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At the foot of the mountain, unlike the nobility who lived above, stood the main village — a gray blot amidst the whiteness of the snow. There, the houses clustered on a small plain where the sun rarely reached — the eternal shadow of the 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 down below: torn clothes, spoiled food scraps, and worst of all, the nobles' latrine waste. Barrels dumped from the heights turned alleys into foul-smelling rivers, mixing with the frozen mud.
Finding beauty there was an almost impossible task. Children's laughter, when it existed, sounded like an affront to misery itself. The air smelled of old sweat, smoke, and blood. Commerce was reduced to bartering: firewood for bread, dried meat for a torn blanket. And even so, the village endured, fueled by the rage of being the ground others walked upon, but also by the hope of ascension they saw in the ritual of the youth.
Nikolai finally stopped in front of a worn wooden door. The lock had been broken for a long time — but there was nothing to protect. Nothing of value existed there. He took a deep breath, muffled, as if each inhalation brought back memories from a distant place: life, light, laughter, and happiness. Memories that felt like they belonged to another world, not his.
He pushed the door open. The creak echoed through the emptiness and, before him, there was only darkness and solitude. Reality crashed down on him like a block of ice: pure and beautiful pasts almost always ended corrupted in that cold, cruel place.
— Well… I'm home.
He spoke to himself, his voice lost in the gloom. He walked to the corner, where three makeshift planks supported a battered pot. He lit the fire with effort. When the thick liquid inside began to bubble, a sour smell filled the room. It was thick, strange, long unfit for human consumption. Still, Nikolai brought it to his mouth and drank, forcing each gulp as if swallowing something extremely bitter. His face twisted, but he kept going.
It was the taste of survival.
Later that night, a low but annoying sound disturbed a house near Nikolai's.
Shi... shi... shi...
The rough noise echoed through the quiet alley.
— What's that boy doing at this hour of the night? — the man grumbled, pulling the curtain away from the small window.
— Darling… I think he's sanding his wooden leg again. — replied his wife, her voice heavy with compassion.
The man huffed.
— This again? For heaven's sake…
The woman, however, was already getting up.
— I think I'll take him some bread.
— Darling! — his voice came out louder, almost a furious whisper. — You need to stop being so soft! Wasting our bread on a possible corpse… Do you really think that boy is going to survive the ritual?
There was silence for a few moments. The baby, wrapped in cloth atop a small silent beast, watched everything with curious eyes, not understanding.
Then the woman spoke, firm, with that calm tone that could silence even the worst tantrum:
— I owe it… to her.
The name was not spoken aloud, but the man shut his mouth. His grumpy gaze drifted into memories he dared not voice. Finally, he grumbled, giving in:
— Go quickly. And come back quickly. These nights are dangerous, I have to head back to Svarog early tomorrow.
Shi... Shi... Shi...
In the faint flicker of the firelight, Nikolai sweated as he sanded his wooden leg. The mold never came out perfect, but each attempt brought improvement. At first, he limped grotesquely, uncontrollably. Now, with experience, he could sculpt something that closely mimicked his lost foot. It didn't give him agility or strength back — but at least it made him look less pathetic.
Knock. Knock.
Few people would dare knock at his door at that hour. Nikolai grabbed the small pocketknife he used for sanding and hid it under his coat. He put on the still poorly adjusted leg and hobbled to the entrance.
— Who is it?
— It's Vadin, Nikolai.
— Miss Vadin… I'm coming.
Almost hopping on one leg, he opened the door quickly.
— 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 nodded.
— That's true… Did something happen? Did you run out of wood? If you need, I still have some scraps saved.
— Don't worry about that, child. — said Vadin, unwrapping a clean cloth, rare in that place. — I brought this.
From within, she revealed a golden, beautiful loaf of bread, fresh from the oven. The warm smell filled the room, drawing from Nikolai an almost childlike reflex: his nose lifted, instinctively.
— Really? I… I don't want to take anything from you.
— AHAHAH! Child… there's no need to worry. As long as I have something to share, I will. Polina would've done the same for me.
The name dropped into the air like a weight. Nikolai's silence revealed she had touched an old wound.
— I'm sorry… — said Vadin, stepping back. — Here, and good luck tomorrow, boy. I'll be rooting for you.
Nikolai held the bread awkwardly, his voice choked.
— 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 delicious, but was overcome by the salt of his tears. 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.