In the great kingdom of ashes and dust, there was a long battle between two Lands. One of them was old, heavy as a mountain, and they called him the Iron Giant. He walked slowly, but each step he took trampled the earth, leaving scorched circles. Even those who walked with him did not like him - but they walked because his shadow was great.

And on the other side, from the forest where the crackling birches grew and the birds sang, one day the Nightingale flew out on fire. He was small, bold, but he flew high. And then, one black night, he flew far - to where no one was waiting - and burned the nest of the Iron Giant, where he kept the iron vultures that flew over the battlefield.

The giant screamed. The earth trembled.
The Nightingale returned with a song - joyful, bold, free. He was greeted as a hero.

But the next day the Giant still walked forward.
Slowly. Without stopping. Without turning. He could no longer fly, but there was no need - he was not walking into the sky, but deep into the earth.
And the trees bent. And cracked. And fell.

The Nightingale's song did not stop the march.