The darkness breathed.
Airi heard it. Felt it. A slow inhale, a weighted exhale. The walls twitched—a convulsing ripple, like muscle beneath skin.
She stopped moving.
Her breath hitched.
Dungeons don't move.
A drop of sweat trickled down her temple. The air here was thick, heavy with rot, sour and coppery like old blood, clogging her lungs like wet cloth. It made her limbs heavy, made her mind slow.
She forced herself forward.
The corridor walls weren't normal. Not damp with condensation like underground tunnels should be. No. This was something else.
The stone was wet. Not with water. Something thicker.
Her fingers brushed it as she moved.
The wall twitched.
Airi ripped her hand back.
Her stomach coiled.
That wasn't moisture. It was veined—black threads pulsing just beneath the surface, alive, reacting to her touch.
Her pulse slammed against her ribs.
She had seen cursed places before. This was worse.
This dungeon wasn't abandoned.
It was breeding something.
She exhaled slowly, forcing her steps silent.
She had come here looking for a cure.
The plague was eating through her kingdom, killing the weak first, then the strong, black veins webbing under the skin, the eyes turning milky white before the body collapsed in on itself. Not a disease. A corruption.
And the rumors—whispers of something beneath the capital, something old, something that had awakened just before the first cases—had led her here.
This place wasn't in any records.
No maps. No histories. Just old warnings—
No one who goes below comes back.
Airi pressed forward.
Then—
A sound stopped her cold.
A wet sound.
Tearing. Chewing.
Slow. Deliberate.
She moved carefully, pressing herself into the shadows. She peeked around the corner—
And froze.
The first corpse was a child.
Airi's age.
Face slack. Mouth open in a silent scream. One arm was twisted backward, fingers curled toward an exit they never reached.
There was no blood.
The body had been drained.
Airi's throat clenched. She forced herself to look beyond it.
More bodies.
Dozens.
Some whole—untouched, except for the pale, milk-white of their empty eyes. Others were torn apart, limbs missing, ribcages cracked open like fruit split down the middle.
She swallowed bile.
They weren't just killed.
They had been harvested.
Then she saw them.
The creatures crouched over the corpses were wrong. Their spines jutted too far out, jagged like broken weapons, their arms too long, ending in clawed hands that twitched—like they weren't fully in control of their own bodies.
Muzzles buried in flesh, they tore into the bodies with methodical precision.
Then one of them lifted its head.
Its jaw unhinged, stretching too wide, its snout still dripping black sludge.
It didn't have eyes.
Only white pits where sight should be.
It sniffed the air.
It turned toward her.
Airi's lungs locked.
It can't see me. It's blind.
Then—
"Wait… is that an elf?"
Airi's stomach seized.
That voice wasn't the creature's.
She spun.
Two boys stood in the archway.
One blond. One dark-haired.
The blond grinned.
It was too wide, like a knife slicing across his face. His golden eyes sparkled—not with kindness. Not with cruelty.
With amusement.
His boots crunched over bones. A child's ribcage collapsed beneath his heel with a brittle, wet snap.
He didn't even look down.
The other boy—Stalin—was silent.
Dark-haired. Unmoving. Watching her with something unreadable. Too calm. Too quiet.
The blond one—Shiro—tilted his head, humming. "Stalin," he sang, jabbing a finger at her. "We need that blood. Now."
Airi's pulse slammed.
Stalin.
That name. That name. That name—
Why did she know that name?
A memory itched, a whisper at the back of her skull, but she couldn't grasp it.
Then—
Stalin moved.
No sound. No weight.
One moment, he was at the entrance.
The next—
Airi couldn't breathe.
Cold fingers closed around her throat.
Not tightening. Not squeezing.
Just holding her there.
Effortless.
Airi lashed out.
Her dagger flashed—fast, instinctual—
It didn't matter.
Her wrist stopped mid-swing. Not by force. Not by anything she could see.
Her own body refused to move.
Airi's blood ran cold.
Her throat burned. No pressure—just control. Like her body was being rewritten from the inside out.
Like he wasn't touching her at all—like something else was gripping her, something between existence and nothing.
Her body locked up.
Not from fear. Not from the grip itself.
Something else. Something worse.
A flicker of—
Pain. Steel walls. A boy standing over her, blood dripping from his fingers—
Airi's breath hitched.
What… was that?
A shiver rolled through her.
Shiro sighed, tapping a finger against his temple. "She's gonna fight, isn't she?"
He stepped forward.
And his boot came down on a child's face.
Airi's breath stopped.
The skull caved with a wet pop. Shiro didn't flinch. Didn't look down. Just kept walking."
No, not like that.
Like it wasn't even real to him.
Something inside Airi coiled, a hot, sharp anger cutting through the horror.
She had seen death before.
She had seen men executed, had watched criminals hanged, had ordered traitors to be cut down. She understood necessary cruelty. She had seen bodies rot on pikes, their flesh bloated and buzzing with flies.
But this was different.
This wasn't war.
This wasn't punishment.
This was mockery.
Her hands curled into fists.
Shiro kept walking, his boots sinking into flesh, ribs collapsing like dead leaves beneath his step. He was still grinning, still humming, like he was enjoying a game only he understood.
Airi's stomach twisted.
She had known monsters before.
But not like this.
Not one that looked like a boy her age.
Her throat was dry, but she forced out words. "You…"
Her voice cracked.
Shiro didn't stop. Didn't react.
Didn't care.
His katana flickered into existence in his hand, sliding into reality like ink spilling across paper. He tilted his head at her, still smiling.
Then—
"Damn. You made it sound like they'd be a challenge."
Steel flashed.
And the creatures—all of them—
Unraveled.
Airi didn't see it.
One moment, the creatures were lunging, their twisted bodies a blur of movement—
The next—
They were dead.
No hesitation. No struggle. No bodies even hitting the floor.
It had been instant.
Airi's blood ran cold.
Her mind stalled, trying to process.
Shiro moved.
Then nothing moved at all. Just corpses.
Airi blinked—still no swing.
Just aftermath.
Airi's stomach twisted violently.
She had watched elven generals train—warriors who had spent a thousand years honing their skills, moving too fast for humans to track.
And yet—she could still see them move.
With Shiro—nothing.
A ten-year-old had just surpassed the greatest warriors of her kingdom.
And he wasn't even breaking a sweat.
Airi's chest tightened.
Her hand shot forward before she could think, her fingers gripping his collar, shoving him back with all her strength.
"What the fuck was that!?"
Her voice was raw, filled with something she couldn't name—shock, rage, something between them.
Shiro barely moved. His body was solid, firm beneath her grip.
Instead, he blinked, then his grin split wider, his golden eyes glinting.
"That?" He tilted his head. "That was just a warm-up, Princess."
Airi's breath hitched.
Her fingers tightened around his collar.
Then—
Her mind caught up to something else.
He called me Princess.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"How do you know that?" she demanded. "I never told you my name. I never told you who I was."
Shiro's grin stretched.
"Oh, come on." He waved a hand at her. "You just have that look. Like someone trying to be something they already were."
Airi's eye twitched.
Shiro hummed, amused. "The perfect hair, the fancy cloak, the 'I have a stick up my ass' posture. It's like you're wearing a sign."
Airi wanted to hit him.
She was still grappling with the impossibility of his speed, still trying to rationalize what she had just witnessed, and now this brat was treating it like a joke.
Her fury boiled over.
Her eyes dropped to his feet—
To the crushed remains of the corpses beneath his boots.
And something in her snapped.
Her hands shoved him harder, her voice breaking into a shout.
"You stepped on them!"
Shiro blinked. "And?"
Airi's chest heaved, her breath wild, her voice shaking with fury.
"You crushed them like they were nothing!"
Shiro sighed, tilting his head. "They were already dead."
Airi's fists clenched so hard they ached.
"You don't do that," she spat. "You don't treat the dead like garbage!"
Shiro's grin didn't waver.
"So?"
Airi felt sick.
"So!?" she snarled. "They were children! They had families! They—"
"Ohhhh." Shiro rolled his eyes, sighing dramatically. "You're going to give me a big speech now, aren't you?"
Airi's nails bit into her skin.
Her voice turned raw. "You think this is funny?"
"I think you're funny."
Shiro's golden eyes glimmered, something mocking curling at the edges of his smile.
They're corpses," he hummed. "What, you wanted me to cry for them?""
Airi froze.
Then she turned to Stalin.
He had done nothing.
Had said nothing.
Hadn't even looked at the bodies.
Her voice was low, sharp.
"You're just going to stand there?"
For the first time, Stalin spoke. His voice was soft—too soft, like it was never meant to be heard.
"Why wouldn't he step on them?"
Airi's breath stopped.
Stalin's foggy eyes met hers—not white, not black, just unreadable, like mist over water.
"They're not moving," he continued, so flatly it made her stomach coil. "They're not resisting. They're not suffering. They're just there."
His tone never changed.
"If something doesn't move, it's just part of the floor."
Airi felt sick.
That wasn't just cold.
That was so much worse.
Because he wasn't mocking her like Shiro.
This was just… how he saw things.
Like the concept of respecting the dead didn't exist in his mind.
Her hands shook.
"You're a monster," she whispered.
Stalin blinked slowly.
"And you're still alive."
The words hit like a blade to the ribs.
Airi stiffened.
His voice was so factual, so detached, it took her brain a second to even process what he was implying.
"You came looking for something," he murmured, "a cure, an answer."
He tilted his head slightly.
"But if there was anyone else who could give it to you, you wouldn't be standing in front of us."
He took a step forward.
"If we weren't the only ones," his voice was barely above a whisper, but it filled the air like a cold fog, "you wouldn't have made it this far."
Airi's stomach dropped.
She wanted to argue. To fight back.
But she couldn't.
Because he was right.
And the worst part was—he wasn't even trying to threaten her.
It was just a fact.
Stalin lifted his hand.
A vial flickered into existence in his palm, materializing from nothing.
The glass was etched with old runes, symbols that made Airi's temples throb just looking at them.
"Blood," he said simply. "Now."
Airi's throat was dry.
Her hands clenched. Some stubborn, fading part of her wanted to refuse—wanted to resist just for the sake of it, just to feel like she still had some control.
"I…" Her voice barely left her lips. "You can't just—"
Then she met his gaze.
Foggy. Unreadable.
There was nothing behind those eyes. No anger. No threat. No amusement.
Just a void.
Something about it sent a slow, unnatural chill down her spine.
It wasn't fear of death. She had seen death before.
It was fear of something else.
Something she couldn't name.
Her breath came shallow and tight.
Her fingers trembled as she forced herself to move, pricking her palm.
A single drop of blood fell into the vial.
The runes lit up, glowing a deep, unnatural violet.
Shiro beamed, spinning his katana playfully.
"Oh, you're perfect."
The dungeon shuddered.
With a last glance at the lifeless children behind me, I swallowed my fear—and followed...