The moment the creature moved, Stalin was faster.
Airi barely had time to react before she felt it—an ironclad grip at the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair with effortless force. There was no hesitation, no room for resistance. In one swift motion, he yanked her forward, pressing her face against his chest.
Thud.
The sound of her heartbeat crashing against her ribs was deafening.
Before she could even process what was happening, Stalin had already moved, dragging her with him as the wind howled past her ears.
Airi didn't see the thing lunging for her—only caught a glimpse of twisted limbs in her peripheral vision, a blur of something wrong. But then, before it could reach them—
Shink.
A flicker of golden light. A blur of motion.
And then—
The sound of flesh separating.
Shiro had already cut it apart.
No resistance. No struggle. The monster's body scattered like splintered glass, a trillion fractured pieces hitting the stone floor in a shower of gore.
But Airi didn't watch.
Because she was still there.
Her face pressed against Stalin's chest, her breath catching in her throat. The scent of cold metal and faint blood clung to his coat, mixing with something else—something she couldn't name. His heartbeat thrummed steady beneath her ear, unfazed, unshaken.
He wasn't trembling.
She was.
It hit her all at once—the sheer absurdity of this moment. This wasn't how things were supposed to happen. This wasn't how reality was supposed to work.
Her grandfather had taught her the laws of magic. Magic required structure, method, logic—but Stalin moved like none of those things applied to him. Ofcourse he explained but I can't help but think about it.
Her entire life, she had been told that strength came with lineage, with study, with mastery of the arcane arts. Even those blessed with magic followed strict principles. But Stalin—
Stalin, who had caught her so easily. Stalin, who had dragged her away without a second thought. Stalin, who stood there now, utterly unbothered by the nightmare they had just survived.
He doesn't belong here.
The thought surfaced before she could suppress it, cold and invasive, like an unwelcome whisper at the back of her mind.
Airi didn't realize how stiff her body was until Stalin moved.
One moment, she was trapped in his grasp, her face buried against his chest. The next, warmth flooded through her like a tide washing away a sandcastle—erasing her resistance, her tension, her very thoughts.
It was like a spell.
No.
It was a spell.
But not one she had ever felt before.
Her breath caught as her body went weightless, the tension in her limbs evaporating like mist beneath the sun. She hadn't spoken, hadn't asked, hadn't even thought of resisting—and yet Stalin had just done it. Calmed her. Silenced every scream in her mind before they could even fully form.
Magic—real magic—had rules. Healing spells didn't work like this. They required complex chants, stabilization arrays, incantations tied to an individual's life force. The best healers in the world needed years—decades—to refine their craft.
And yet—
He didn't say a single word.
Her hands curled into trembling fists against his coat.
The spell didn't just heal—it rewrote.
It forcefully erased the chaos in her mind, replacing it with something eerily tranquil. Her heartbeat slowed, her panic dulled, the sheer weight of her own thoughts lightened against her will.
This wasn't just healing.
This was correction.
An unnatural, seamless override of her emotions, as if Stalin had simply decided she should no longer feel like this.
Airi wanted to be angry.
Wanted to fight this unnatural serenity that had been forced upon her.
But she didn't.
Because it felt too good.
Like a child being tucked into bed after a nightmare, like hands smoothing down the jagged edges of her existence, Stalin's magic made it so easy to forget.
The memories of the Stray.
The impossibility of Stalin's survival.
The way her entire life—her training, her knowledge, her very reality—had been thrown into question.
It should have been suffocating.
But instead, it was just… gone.
Her denial, her fear, her helplessness—pushed down, buried beneath the weight of something far heavier.
Something that told her, in this moment, she didn't need to fight anymore.
That she could just breathe.
That she could just rest.
Stalin pulled away, releasing his hold on her head.
The warmth of his chest vanished, replaced by the cold air of the dungeon.
Airi blinked, her hands twitching as if trying to grasp something intangible.
For a single, fragile moment—she almost reached for him again.
But Stalin was already moving, already turning away as if nothing had happened.
He pulled the small vial he had collected earlier from his coat and tossed it to Shiro without a glance. "We should rest here for the day."
Shiro caught it with ease, golden eyes flicking from Stalin to Airi before narrowing slightly. "Tch. Finally realized we're not gods?"
Stalin didn't answer.
Airi swallowed, her throat dry.
"Rest?" she echoed, her voice sounding distant even to herself. "Because we defeated this….monster?"
Stalin nodded. "This dungeon—this entire labyrinth—has a system."
He glanced at her, his foggy red eyes unreadable. "There are small monsters. Like the ones we encountered before—the ones that fed on children."
Airi's stomach churned.
"Then there are mediocre monsters," Stalin continued. "Stronger than the small ones. The creatures we fought before—the hands, the undead."
She shivered, her mind flashing back to the frozen land, —the ice, the grotesque corpses, the way the very fabric of reality seemed to fray at the edges.
Stalin's voice was steady. Unbothered. Detached.
"And then," he said, "there are the bosses."
Airi didn't need to ask what that meant.
She already knew.
The Stray.
The name itself sent a tremor down her spine, but—
She wasn't panicking.
She should be. She should be gasping for air, clawing at the walls, screaming that none of this made sense—
But she wasn't.
Because he had taken that away from her.
Her fingers curled around the fabric of her sleeves.
This wasn't normal.
This wasn't right.
And yet, when she looked at Stalin—at his calm, steady expression, at the way he acted as if all of this was just another step forward—
She couldn't bring herself to argue.
Her arms tensed. A desperate instinct screamed at her to push him away, to escape, to demand answers—
But she didn't.
Because something much, much worse had just settled in the pit of her stomach.
If Stalin let go, she wasn't sure she'd be able to stand.
And that terrified her more than anything.
Shiro exhaled sharply, his golden eyes scanning the cavern as if seeing its walls for the first time.
"…How long have we been awake?"
Airi turned to him, momentarily pulled from the fog in her mind.
Now that she thought about it—
The battles. The running. The sheer, unrelenting weight of everything—
They hadn't stopped moving since the dungeon's hellish descent began.
Shiro, growing visibly impatient, raised a hand and slapped Stalin's shoulder—not hard, but firm enough to demand an answer.
He then gestured vaguely, fingers tapping his wrist like an invisible watch.
The silent question was clear: How long?
Stalin, as always, seemed unaffected by the prodding.
Instead of answering, he simply raised his hand—
—and from nothingness, he produced a tightly rolled sleeping bag.
No words. No chants. No formations.
Just—instant manifestation.
Airi's heart stopped for a moment.
This spell—no, this act—was something only the oldest and most accomplished mages should be capable of. Creating objects from pure mana required an understanding of reality itself, the kind of mastery that took centuries to refine.
Yet Stalin—Stalin—had done it as easily as breathing.
No hesitation. No effort.
Because he wasn't bound by the fake system she had spent her life believing in.
Airi's nails bit into her palms.
She wasn't sure whether to feel jealous or terrified.
Shiro, for his part, accepted the sleeping bag without comment, his gaze flickering between Stalin and Airi. He clearly noticed something in her expression, but instead of pushing, he simply muttered, "Finally," before dropping down onto the cavern floor.
Stalin's red eyes shifted to Airi.
She was still standing there, fists clenched, trying to piece together everything she had once known and everything she was seeing now.
Then—before she could react—
His hand brushed her shoulder.
A faint pulse of magic followed.
Airi startled.
Not because of the touch—no, Stalin had already dragged her against him earlier, so she had no excuse to be embarrassed now—
But because of what followed.
A ripple. A subtle shift.
And then—her dress.
The torn fabric, the slashed and frayed edges—mended.
Perfectly.
She hadn't even realized it had been damaged—hadn't noticed the rips and tears from the earlier fights. But Stalin had.
And without a word, he had fixed it.
What—what was this?
He made it look effortless. No grand gestures, no incantations, no complex formations—just a single touch, and reality bent to his will.
It was unfair.
It was wrong.
It was cheating.
Stalin moved past her before she could say anything. Another sleeping bag formed in his hands—this one for her.
She took it numbly, lowering herself onto the ground.
This was normal, right?
Resting. Recovering. Preparing for what came next.
And yet, as she lay down, the weight of it all crashed onto her again.
The doubts. The impossibilities. The helplessness.
She wasn't useful.
She wasn't strong enough.
She wasn't even needed.
Her throat tightened.
The realization was suffocating.
The silence stretched between them, thick as the dark beyond the cavern walls. Airi lay motionless in her sleeping bag, staring at the jagged ceiling above. The uneven stone, the shadows shifting with the flicker of dim torchlight—it all blurred together, a meaningless backdrop to the storm inside her.
Her body was relaxed.
Her mind was not.
Stalin's strange magic had forced her into an unnatural state of calm, smoothing the edges of her panic, dulling the jagged spikes of fear. But magic could not erase truth. And the truth was screaming.
Her life.
Her training.
The Manifold Arcana her grandfather taught her.
It was a lie.
She squeezed her eyes shut, fingers twisting in the fabric of the sleeping bag.
No. That couldn't be right. It couldn't be.
She had spent her whole life refining her skills, training under one of the greatest mages in the elven kingdom. The spells she learned weren't fake. They couldn't be. They worked. They shaped the world.
Didn't they?
Her magic had always felt… limited.
A rigid, formulaic thing, bound to the structure of chants and wands and precise formations. It had never been the raw, unrestricted power Stalin wielded.
Because his wasn't bound at all.
Airi gritted her teeth.
She wanted to deny it. She needed to deny it.
Because if she accepted it—if she truly accepted that her magic was a cheap imitation of something far greater—then what did that make her?
She turned onto her side, unable to bear staring at the ceiling any longer.
"…Stalin."
Her voice came out softer than she intended, barely above a whisper.
Stalin, who had been sitting beside her, leaning against the cold stone wall, barely reacted. Only his deep red eyes shifted slightly, indicating he was listening.
Airi hesitated.
She hated this. The powerlessness. The way her stomach twisted with frustration and self-loathing.
She had always known she wasn't the strongest. Not compared to the mages of legend, the great ones who shaped history. But she had never felt weak. Not like this.
She had never felt useless.
The memory of the fight was still fresh—Stalin pulling her against his chest, moving her away like she was nothing more than an obstacle before Shiro erased the creature in a single moment. She had done nothing. Just watched. Just trembled.
It burned.
She forced the words out before she could second-guess them.
"…Teach me. The Hollowing. How do I use it?"
For the first time, Stalin moved.
Not sharply. Not dramatically.
Just a slow, subtle tilt of his head.
Then—
"I forgot my mom."
Airi's breath hitched.
Stalin wasn't looking at her anymore. His gaze had fallen somewhere far, far beyond the cavern—somewhere only he could see.
"The only person who took care of me," he murmured.
Airi stayed quiet.
"She sacrificed her life for me."
His voice was hollow. Empty. Like he was reciting a fact rather than remembering it.
"…All those happy memories with her. Gone."
Airi felt something tighten in her chest.
She wanted to say something—anything.
But what could she say?
The weight of his words settled over her like a shroud.
Not just sadness. Not just loss.
Erasure.
This was different from simply forgetting. It wasn't just time fading a memory, wasn't just the mind failing to hold onto something precious.
This was something else.
Something deeper.
Something wrong.
Airi had seen hints of it before—the way Stalin reacted to names, to places, the way he sometimes paused, like the world itself had rewritten a page in his mind. But now, hearing it directly from him, the reality hit like ice in her veins.
He doesn't just lose things.
He doesn't just forget.
The world takes from him.
And he can't get it back.
The Hollowing.
It wasn't just power. It wasn't just some forbidden force.
It was destruction. A self-consuming, unraveling thing.
It took. And took. And took.
Until nothing remained.
Her fingers trembled.
She had wanted it. She had asked for it.
But now, as she lay there, feeling the weight of Stalin's reality pressing down on her, she realized—
She couldn't handle it.
She wasn't like him.
She wasn't strong enough to survive that kind of cost.
She pressed her forehead into the pillow, squeezing her eyes shut.
"…Never mind," she whispered.
Stalin didn't respond.
The silence stretched on.
She curled deeper into the sleeping bag, as if she could bury herself beneath it. As if the darkness there was safer than the truth Stalin had shown her.
She had asked to learn the Hollowing.
She had thought she wanted it—needed it.
But now she knew the truth.
She couldn't handle it.
She wasn't strong enough to pay the price Stalin had.
She wasn't ready to be forgotten.
Her hands curled into weak fists against the fabric. The frustration burned under her skin, but it had nowhere to go. She was trapped between her own powerlessness and the horrifying realization that if she reached beyond it—if she reached for his power—she would never be the same again.
She had nothing left to say.
And Stalin—he didn't push her to.
He sat in the same position, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. His gaze was unfocused, red eyes turned toward the darkness beyond the cavern's light. He hadn't moved in minutes.
Airi swallowed, forcing her voice to break the silence.
"…How did you get here?"
Stalin's head shifted slightly. He exhaled through his nose.
"I was looking for something," he said simply.
The neutrality in his voice made it clear—he wasn't going to tell her what that something was.
Airi frowned. That isn't my business, huh?
She should have let it go.
But something about the way he said it—like he was already putting distance between himself and the truth—made her stomach twist.
"Looking for something?" she repeated, her voice quieter. "And you ended up in this… place?"
Stalin nodded. "As soon as I entered the elven forest, I got dragged here."
Airi's chest tightened. The elven forest.
Her kingdom.
That meant he had been close. Close enough that—if things had gone just a little differently—she might have met him somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn't this cold, suffocating nightmare of a dungeon.
Somewhere where she wouldn't have had to learn that her magic was fake.
She hated that the thought made her feel even more useless.
Before she could dwell on it, Stalin continued.
"I found this idiot here," he said, tilting his head toward Shiro, who was lying motionless in his own sleeping bag.
The comment should have been funny.
But there was something off about the way he said it.
Something wrong.
"…You didn't know him before?" Airi asked carefully.
Stalin blinked, as if considering the question. Then, after a pause—
"No."
Airi felt her breath catch.
Something about the answer felt too final.
Like it had been rewritten just before he spoke.
Like—
Like he was forgetting something again.
A chill ran through her.
But Stalin didn't seem concerned. His expression remained blank, detached, as if it didn't matter.
And maybe, to him, it didn't.
She wanted to believe that wasn't true.
But the more she looked at him—the way his foggy red eyes stared into the void, the way his own past slipped away from him—the more she realized…
Maybe it was.
And maybe—
Maybe that was more terrifying than anything else in this dungeon.
Airi was spiraling.
Her mind felt like a fractured mirror, each shard reflecting a different version of herself. The Airi who believed in Manifold Arcana. The Airi who trusted her training. The Airi who thought she had control.
They were all breaking.
She clenched her hands into fists beneath the covers.
It wasn't fair.
She remembered the first time she cast a flame sigil. The thrill of shaping mana, of feeling power hum at her fingertips.
Her grandfather had smiled. Praised her. Called her gifted
.
And now?
It was all fake. A trick. A parlor game compared to what Stalin could do with a flick of his wrist.
And the worst part?
He wasn't even trying.
Her breath came unevenly.
She hated this.
She hated feeling this way.
Then—
A weight settled on her head.
Warm. Steady.
Airi flinched.
Stalin's hand.
Before she could react, a familiar, unnatural calm flooded through her veins.
The strange healing spell.
She tried to hold onto the fear, the frustration—tried to cling to her anger like a lifeline.
But it slipped through her fingers, dissolving like mist.
Her body relaxed without her permission.
It was infuriating.
But… it was also warm.
Her cheeks burned. "W-Why are you—"
"You're not useless," Stalin interrupted.
Airi froze.
His voice was neutral. Emotionless. Like he wasn't offering comfort—just stating a fact.
But somehow, that made her chest tighten.
"Your existence has value. Without your blood, we'd be dead. That's enough."
Airi swallowed hard.
The words shouldn't have meant anything. He wasn't trying to be kind. He wasn't trying to reassure her.
But still—
Her heart rate increased against her will.
She squeezed her eyes shut. No. No. No.
It was just exhaustion. Just the lingering effects of the spell. That was all.
Right?
With a sharp exhale, she forced herself to turn onto her side, facing away from him.
"Tch. Whatever," she muttered.
Only then did Stalin remove his hand.
The warmth lingered.
She hated it.
She didn't hate it.
Before she could dwell on it further, Stalin spoke again.
"Sleep," he ordered. "I'll stay awake and keep watch."
Airi frowned, looking over her shoulder. "You need rest too."
"I don't," Stalin said flatly.
Airi scowled. "That's—"
For a moment, he just stared at her.
Unblinking. Unmoving. Watching like he already knew she wouldn't win this argument.
Airi's face burned.
The absolute disrespect.
Her jaw clenched. She wanted to argue, wanted to slap his hand away.
But exhaustion was already pressing down on her.
And as her vision blurred into darkness, The last thing she saw was Stalin—unmoving, staring into the darkness like it was staring back.
But the worst part?
For a split second, she swore the darkness blinked first.