The Hollow Veil
The dungeon inhaled.
Airi felt it—heavy, slow, pressing against her ribs like a second heartbeat.
It wasn't the walls. It wasn't the silence.
It was something deeper.
A pressure beneath her skin. A weight behind her eyes.
It watched.
No—waited.
The air was thicker here, not with dampness, but with something unseen, something ancient. Every breath she took felt like it was sinking into something alive, something breathing with her.
She swallowed hard.
She had been in dungeons before. She had walked through the ruins of fallen cities, through the forgotten tombs of long-dead kings. But this—
This was different.
She inhaled sharply, steeling herself. Focus.
She was Airi Valeria Nachtal.
Princess of the Northern Kingdom.
A ruler. A warrior.
She was not afraid of the dark.
"I am Airi Valeria Nachtal." Her voice was steady. Too steady. "Princess of the Northern Kingdom."
The words should have meant something.
They should have carried weight.
And yet—they didn't.
Here, in the belly of this forsaken place, her title was small. A whisper into a void too vast to hear it.
From beside her, Shiro chuckled.
His laughter was soft, amused, the kind that made her want to draw a blade.
His grin split his face like a wound, sharp and gleaming in the dim light.
"A princess, huh?" His eyes flickered—something dark lurking beneath his teasing voice.
"That's cute."
Airi's shoulders stiffened.
Something in the way he said it—it wasn't just mockery.
It was dismissal.
Like her title didn't matter. Like her kingdom, her people, her entire world—
Was nothing.
She turned her gaze to him, eyes narrowing.
Shiro tilted his head, studying her like she was some interesting puzzle before offering a careless shrug.
"I'm just Shiro."
Just Shiro.
No family name. No title. Nothing.
Airi hesitated.
There was something unnatural about that absence.
Most people would announce themselves with pride. Even criminals—**especially criminals—**would carry the weight of their name. Their family. Their bloodline.
But Shiro gave nothing.
And somehow, that nothing spoke louder than any title could.
Then—
Stalin.
The moment her gaze flickered toward him, an awful stillness filled her chest.
He wasn't standing like a person.
He was simply there.
Not breathing. Not shifting. Not waiting.
Just—existing.
Airi's stomach tightened.
She knew how to read people. She had spent years learning how to detect the smallest shifts in expression, the most subtle movements.
A twitch of the fingers. A tightening of the jaw.
Signs of thought. Of reaction. Of life.
But Stalin—
There was nothing.
He was watching, but not like a person watched.
Not curiously. Not idly.
It was like something was inside him, something older than his body, something waiting for an instruction that had not yet been given.
The air around them thickened.
Airi's throat felt dry.
Then—
He spoke.
"Stalin Arkhangelsky."
The dungeon felt colder.
Airi's breath caught. The syllables pressed against her skull—too heavy, too wrong.
And then—
Pain.
Her chest tightened, her breath hitching as something sharp and painful tore through her skull.
That name—
Her vision blurred.
A headache, sudden and violent, stabbed behind her eyes.
And then—
The world cracked.
—White walls.
—Cold, sterile light.
—A boy.
Airi staggered back.
The air felt wrong, her stomach twisting violently as the vision pulled her under.
She wasn't in the dungeon anymore.
She was somewhere else.
A room stretched too wide, its edges too smooth, too clean.
And in the center—
A child stood in the silence.
A boy—six, maybe younger—dressed in white.
Bare feet. A blank expression.
The air smelled of antiseptic. Of metal.
Of something rotten beneath bleach.
Bodies surrounded him.
Not just dead. Arranged.
Airi's breath stopped.
The bodies were all the same age.
All wearing the same white gown.
Some were face-down, limbs twisted at unnatural angles.
Some were half-curled, hands outstretched like they had tried to crawl away.
The air reeked of blood.
And the boy—
The boy stood there, unblinking, his small fists bloodied.
His arms hung loosely at his sides, his posture calm, undisturbed.
And then—
He looked at her.
His foggy eyes locked onto hers.
Recognition shot through her like a knife.
I know you.
But—how?
The moment she thought it—
The vision shattered.
Airi staggered back, her heartbeat pounding against her ribs like a war drum.
The air felt wrong—too thick, too close. Her fingers dug into her scalp, trying to ground herself, to stay here.
Not there.
Not with that boy. Not with those bodies.
Her stomach twisted violently.
The dungeon snapped back into focus.
Stalin stood exactly where he had before.
Unmoving. Watching.
Like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn't just looked her in the eyes in another world.
Airi's pulse pounded.
What—what the fuck was that?
The moment stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Something shifted in the air.
The dungeon exhaled.
Airi felt it before she saw them—the presence pressing against her skin, filling the space around them like it had always been there.
Then—
They existed.
One moment, the hallway was empty.
The next—
It wasn't.
Airi's stomach lurched.
And whatever the hell had just happened—
She had no time to figure it out.
Airi's stomach lurched.
The creatures were wrong.
Not just monstrous. Not just twisted.
Wrong.
Their flesh was stretched too thin, pulled taut over jagged bones, their mouths gaping—too wide—lined with jagged, shifting teeth that never seemed to stay in the same place.
And their eyes—
Not on her.
Not on Shiro.
Fixed on Stalin.
Airi froze.
They weren't looking at her.
They weren't even acknowledging her.
Not a single milky-white gaze shifted toward her or Shiro, not even a glance in their direction.
It was as if she didn't exist.
As if Shiro didn't exist.
As if Stalin was the only thing in this hallway.
Her chest tightened.
Monsters didn't hesitate. They didn't ignore prey.
Then why—
—why weren't they looking at her?
Not a single twitch. Not a flicker of acknowledgment.
Like she wasn't here.
Like she wasn't real.
Like only Stalin was.
Like Stalin was something they had no right to face.
Her stomach coiled, a sick, twisting instinct clawing up her throat. That wasn't normal. That wasn't right.
What the fuck was Stalin?
One twitched. Its mouth gaped wider, jagged teeth shifting.
A sound escaped its throat—a breathless, unnatural wheeze, something between a hiss and a dying gasp.
Then—
They lunged.
Straight for Stalin.
Airi flinched—
And Shiro disappeared.
One second, he was standing beside her.
The next—gone.
A sharp whisper of air cut past her ears, a blur of silver and movement too fast to track—
Then—
A monster's head hit the ground.
A second later, its body followed.
Airi's breath caught.
Shiro reappeared five steps ahead, standing over the corpse, blood splattered across his grin.
His sword was already sheathed.
Like he had never moved at all.
The remaining creatures flinched.
Then—
Shiro lunged.
The world blurred.
Airi's eyes tried to track him—tried to see where he was, how he moved—
But her vision couldn't keep up.
One moment, he was beside her.
The next—he was between the monsters, his blade flashing like lightning.
A clean slice—
A body collapsed, its limbs severed before it hit the floor.
A fluid turn—
Another monster was bisected, its torso sliding apart mid-lunge.
Airi barely saw him move.
Not a blur. Not a flicker.
One second, he was beside her. The next—he was standing over a corpse.
No gap. No transition. Like a frame had been cut from reality.
Her pulse slammed against her ribs. That—that wasn't just speed. That wasn't human.
Stalin, on the other hand—
Stalin wasn't moving at all.
He was watching.
And then—
He raised his hand.
Not like reaching for something.
Not like casting a spell.
But—deliberate. Precise.
His forefinger and middle finger pressed together, his thumb raised, the rest of his hand curled inward.
Airi stared.
It was a gesture she had never seen before.
It looked like a command. A trigger. A silent execution.
She didn't understand it—
But the monsters did.
The first one lurched—then froze.
A strangled hiss clawed from its throat, its limbs convulsing as its flesh shriveled like burning paper.
Its chest caved inward, ribs splintering with sick, wet cracks.
It gasped—tried to move—
Then crumbled to dust.
Airi's pulse slammed against her ribs.
Not magic.
Not a spell.
It was something else.
Another lunged—
Stalin flicked his fingers.
Crack.
Its abdomen imploded, flesh rotting in seconds, bones crumbling into powder.
The thing twitched, gasping soundlessly as its entire body withered from existence.
Gone.
Airi breath hitched.
Her body refused to move.
Shiro had moved faster than she could see.
Stalin had not moved at all.
The air felt wrong.
Then—
A sound.
Wet. Fleshy.
Airi's stomach churned.
She turned—
And the remaining creatures—
They weren't attacking.
They weren't moving.
They were kneeling.
Their jagged, broken bodies folding inward, limbs buckling, heads lowering until their milky-white eyes were pressed to the floor.
Airi's chest locked.
They weren't surrendering.
They were worshipping.
Not out of devotion.
Out of pure, primal terror.
Like Stalin wasn't just a predator.
Like he was something they were never meant to see.
Her nails dug into her palms, a sharp, desperate grounding—she needed to move, needed to breathe—
And then they died.
Not by his hand. Not by a command.
They just—broke.
Bones snapping inward, jaws stretching in silent, wretched screams as their bodies withered to dust.
No fight. No struggle.
Because they had already lost.
Because Stalin had already decided they would.
Airi's stomach churned. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, her lungs burned—
—what the fuck had she just witnessed.
Airi's lungs burned.
Then—
They collapsed.
Not by his hand.
Not by force.
Their bodies caved in on themselves, ribs snapping inward, jaws unhinging in silent screams as they rotted from the inside out.
Airi watched them die without a single wound on them.
And she knew—
They had been dead the moment he arrived.
A rush of nausea swirled in her stomach.
She barely had time to register the thought before—
The whispers began.
The air shattered.
The whispers slithered through the air.
Soft. Distant.
No—inside.
Inside her skull. Inside her veins.
Airi's breath hitched.
The dungeon was gone.
Or—it wasn't.
She could still feel the cold stone beneath her boots. Still feel the weight of the air pressing against her skin.
But something else was there.
Layered over reality.
A presence that coiled through the walls, wrapping around her ribs, threading through her thoughts like smoke.
She blinked.
And the world shifted.
No longer stone.
No longer a prison.
Home.
Airi inhaled sharply.
She was standing in the royal halls.
White marble stretched before her, polished and untouched, the air thick with the scent of winter roses.
Golden light spilled through the high windows.
The scent of warm bread drifted from the kitchens.
Faint laughter echoed down the corridors.
Her heart pounded.
"I—I'm home?"
Her voice came out hoarse, fragile.
She took a step forward.
The floor was solid.
The warmth of sunlight kissed her skin.
Real.
It felt—real.
Too real.
Her stomach clenched.
She had been in illusions before. Had seen powerful magic twist reality into something too perfect, too soft.
But this—
She could smell the wax on the polished floors.
She could feel the warmth of the afternoon sun, the faint drift of wind from the balcony doors left slightly open.
Magic couldn't do that.
Could it?
A soft voice echoed through the halls.
"Airi."
Airi's lungs froze.
Her mother's voice.
She spun around—too fast—
And froze.
Her family stood in the dining hall.
The long table was set for dinner.
Candles flickered.
Her father sat at the head of the table, smiling.
Her mother's hands rested gently on his shoulders.
Her little brother giggled softly, swinging his feet under his chair.
All of them…
Peeled open.
Flesh stripped from their limbs like ribbons.
Skin flayed to the bone.
Their mouths twisted wide.
They turned to her in unison.
Smiling.
And in her own voice, they whispered:
"You did this, Airi."
Her legs gave out.
Her breath tore free, ragged and uneven.
Hands shaking. Nails digging into cold marble.
No.
No—this wasn't—
The scent of roses curdled, rotting, turning black in her lungs.
The candlelight flickered—then burned black.
The polished floors were suddenly soaked in red.
Her mother's head tilted, skin peeling away from her cheek.
"Why did you kill us?"
Airi choked on a scream.
"I—I didn't—"
Her father stood, his exposed ribs gleaming in the dim light.
"Then why are we dead?"
Her little brother laughed.
It sounded like cracking bones.
Airi stumbled backward.
She needed to breathe. She needed to think.
This wasn't real.
It wasn't real.
She slammed her eyes shut.
"It's the dungeon."
"It's the whispers."
"It's not real, it's not real, it's not real—"
"Open your eyes, Airi."
Her mother's voice—right beside her ear.
Cold fingers brushed her cheek.
Airi's breath broke.
Her eyes snapped open—
And the hall was gone.
The corpses were gone.
The warmth was gone.
Only blackness remained.
She was standing in nothing.
No walls. No air. No weight.
And yet—
Something moved.
Not sound. Not breath.
A whisper of pressure against her throat.
Not a child.
Not a person.
A shape where one should be.
A boy who had no face nor hair.
Airi screamed.
She lurched backward, but the void had no walls, no floor, no escape—
The boy stepped closer.
Small. Silent.
His foggy eyes locked onto hers.
"You did this, Airi."
Her stomach twisted violently.
Not because of the words.
Not because of the abyss.
Because he had said it in her brother's voice.
She gasped, clutched her chest—
And the ground collapsed.
She woke to laughter.
Bright. Amused.
Airi's chest heaved, her body trembling, her mind still trapped between worlds—
Then—
A sharp, mocking clap.
She snapped her head up.
Shiro stood over her, grinning.
"Ohhh, there it is."
His golden eyes sparkled with amusement as he crouched beside her.
"Finally broke."
Airi gasped, pushing herself up, her breath wild.
Then—
Her senses caught up.
And her breath stilled.
There was no mana.
Not from him.
Not even a trace.
Her blood ran cold.
Even if someone was suppressing their mana, some residual energy should remain.
But Shiro—had nothing.
An absence so absolute it felt unnatural.
Airi's stomach coiled.
Then—
Her head snapped toward Stalin.
Him too.
Zero mana.
But—not the same.
Stalin's mana wasn't gone.
It was hidden. Suppressed.
Like something was coiling beneath the surface, waiting.
But Shiro—
Shiro was empty.
Airi's nails bit into her skin.
Then—
Warmth.
She inhaled sharply.
Stalin's hand glowed green.
A healing spell.
Normal. Recognizable.
But—
Airi stiffened.
The warmth spread through her mind.
Her thoughts—
The panic—
The fear—
Gone.
Like it had never been there.
Her hands shook.
She knew healing magic.
It shouldn't be able to do this.
It shouldn't be able to fix her mind.
She snapped her gaze to Stalin.
"What—what did you do?"
He wasn't watching her.
He was already standing.
"Move."
His voice was calm. Absolute.
Airi's hands clenched.
She turned back to Shiro.
He was still grinning.
She lunged.
"You think this is funny?"
Shiro barely moved as she grabbed his collar, shoving him back.
"You watched me suffer—for fun?"
Shiro just laughed.
"Well, yeah."
Airi's pulse pounded.
She wanted to hit him.
But the exhaustion in her bones weighed her down.
Shiro's grin widened.
"You'll get used to it, Princess."
Airi's nails dug into his collar. Tight. Furious.
Shiro didn't even flinch.
Didn't fight back.
Didn't care.
His golden eyes glimmered, and for the first time, Airi wondered—
Does he even feel anything at all?
Or does he just enjoy watching people break?
The thought left a chill in her bones.
Stalin was already walking away.
And the nightmare wasn't over yet.