Warmth.
Soft. Gentle. Unfamiliar.
Airi stirred.
Something was wrong.
Not the biting chill of dungeon stone. Not the stiff, musty weight of her cloak. Not the cruel, suffocating cold she had steeled herself against for days.
This was different.
This was warm.
Steady. Alive.
A slow, rhythmic heat pressed against her cheek. A quiet rise and fall, deep and unhurried. A pulse beneath the surface, quiet yet undeniable.
A heartbeat.
Her breath caught.
Sleep clung to the edges of her mind, but instinct urged her awake. A sound—soft, nearly imperceptible. The hush of fabric shifting. The faintest exhale.
Not hers.
Her body stiffened. Awareness crept in, slow but relentless.
Something was here.
Her lashes fluttered, a hesitant movement. Torchlight flickered against the dungeon walls, stretching long, restless shadows across the damp stone. The air smelled of cold embers, rusted iron—blood.
Familiar. Expected.
And yet—
Her cheek was resting against something solid.
Something warm.
Something that—should not be there.
Her breath stilled.
Her vision sharpened.
Stalin.
His left side was right there. Close. Too close.
Her head was on his shoulder.
Airi's mind blanked.
She didn't move. She didn't breathe. She just sat there—horrified—as her thoughts refused to function.
When? How?
More importantly—why had she not woken up?
The realization hit like a carriage crash.
She had slept. On him.
All. Night.
Heat surged up her spine. A slow, mortifying burn, creeping up her neck, flooding her face.
Her heart pounded—a stark contrast to the steady, unshaken rhythm beneath her.
Comfortable. She had been… comfortable.
She hadn't even stirred.
Airi never slept deeply. Even in the palace, surrounded by layers of security, she remained light on her feet. But here? In this place, in this moment?
She hadn't even noticed.
Her fingers curled against the fabric of her cloak. Something inside her twisted.
Slowly, carefully, she lifted her head.
The movement was controlled, practiced—every inch of it deliberate. But beneath the surface, her pulse thundered.
The world tilted slightly, the remnants of sleep clinging to her senses. But she ignored it. Swallowed it down.
She had to be composed. Had to maintain her dignity.
She forced herself to glance at him.
Stalin.
Unmoving. Unshaken.
Back straight, arms loosely folded. His foggy red eyes fixed ahead, unblinking. He had not so much as shifted.
Had he even slept?
Airi pressed her lips together, steadying her breath.
He didn't acknowledge her.
No glance. No reaction. Not even a flicker of confusion.
It was as if—
As if it had never even happened.
And somehow, that made it worse.
A deep, slow breath. She clenched her fists, nails pressing into her palm, forcing herself to regain control. It was nothing. A moment of exhaustion, nothing more. It did not matter.
She could move past it.
Before she could reassert her composure entirely—
"Damn, Princess. Didn't know you were getting cozy with Stalin."
Airi's stomach plummeted.
Her body locked up on instinct.
Slowly—dreading what she was about to see—she turned.
Shiro.
Lounging by the fire, one leg lazily draped over the other, golden eyes bright with amusement.
Grinning.
Airi's soul left her body.
No.
Shiro tilted his head slightly, the expression on his face infuriatingly smug.
"Not bad. Can't say I blame you. Warmer than dungeon floors, huh?"
Her mouth opened—nothing came out.
She had barely begun to process what had happened, and now—now she had to deal with Shiro witnessing it?!
Her throat locked. Her brain stalled. Words refused to form.
Shiro took her silence as victory.
He sighed, shaking his head dramatically. "But man, I kinda feel bad for you."
A flicker of irritation broke through the haze.
Airi's gaze snapped to him, sharp and burning. "Excuse me?"
Shiro didn't elaborate. Just stretched, rolling his shoulders like the conversation had already bored him.
Her jaw tightened. What the hell did that mean?
Before she could demand an answer—
Something changed.
A scent.
Rich. Sizzling. Meat.
Her nose twitched. The faint aroma of cooked steak drifted through the air, cutting through the usual musty scent of the dungeon.
Wait.
What?
Her eyes scanned the area.
And then—
She froze.
A pan.
A small fire.
Shiro was cooking.
Airi's brain stalled.
No. No, what.
Her mouth opened. What the fuck—
Before she could even speak, Shiro spoke first—without even looking at her.
"Oi, Stalin. Buns."
Airi froze.
What.
A flick of Stalin's fingers.
And then—
A bun materialized out of thin air.
It dropped onto the pan seamlessly, like it had always been there.
Airi's breath caught.
No chant. No incantation. No visible mana fluctuation.
Nothing.
He had just—made it appear.
Her head whipped toward him, eyes wide. "What—how?!"
For the first time that morning, Stalin acknowledged her.
His head tilted slightly. Foggy red eyes flickered toward her.
Unbothered.
Uninterested.
Completely unfazed.
"Spacial magic," he said simply.
Airi blinked.
"…What?"
Stalin gestured toward the food. "I stored some supplies in a subspace before we entered."
Airi felt like she was losing her mind.
That wasn't Hollowing? That was just normal magic?!
Shiro hummed, flipping the steak onto the bun. "See, Princess? Even he uses your 'fake' system."
Airi stopped breathing.
A slow, suffocating weight curled in her stomach.
She clenched her fists. Nails pressed into her palm. A silent war waged within her.
She wanted to deny it. To argue. To dismiss it outright.
But she couldn't.
Because she had seen Stalin tear apart reality.
And he had never needed Manifold Arcana at all.
She was nothing.
Before she could sink deeper—
"Princess Valeria Nachtal."
Airi froze.
Her full name.
The first time he had ever said it.
Not mocking. Not aggressive.
Just—fact.
His gaze lingered.
"What do you want to eat?"
Airi's brain scattered.
What?
Before she could think, she murmured—
"…Burgers are fine."
Shiro gave a thumbs-up. "Got it."
She barely heard him.
Her gaze flicked back to Stalin.
A slow inhale. She steadied herself.
"You can just call me Airi, you know."
Silence.
Then—
"No."
Her eye twitched.
She frowned. "Why not?"
For the first time—
Stalin hesitated.
Airi's chest tightened.
Why was he hesitating?
Airi's fingers curled against the fabric of her cloak, an unconscious motion, barely perceptible.
She had not expected much. Stalin was predictable in that way—blunt, unbothered, devoid of theatrics. A simple refusal. No elaboration.
But hesitation?
Stalin did not hesitate.
Not when he moved, not when he spoke, not even when he killed.
Not once.
Her heartbeat quickened, a subtle warning from instincts she had learned to trust.
What possible reason could there be?
Respect? No, that wasn't it. Stalin had never shown reverence for anything—nobility, law, authority. He carried himself as if those things did not apply to him, as if the world itself was a set of rules that did not concern him.
He was not a knight, bound by honor. He was not a servant, obligated by duty.
So why?
The way he had said no—flat, final, with no room for argument—was familiar. It was the same way he refused unnecessary questions, the same way he dismissed things unworthy of his time.
But that pause.
That slight delay.
Airi's breath slowed, steadying as she focused. She did not like how much she was fixating on this.
It should not matter.
And yet—
Her mind turned, analyzing, unraveling.
Stalin was unreadable. Had always been unreadable. But for a moment, just a fraction of a second, he had wavered.
Something about her name.
Not Airi—not the short, personal version she had told him to use.
Valeria Nachtal.
Her full name.
Her title.
He had spoken it effortlessly, like it was simply a fact of existence. Not with reverence, not with mockery—just stated.
And yet, when given the option to discard it, to call her something simpler, he had—
Hesitated.
A chill traced the back of her spine.
Not from fear. Not quite.
It was something else.
Something she could not name.
Her throat felt strangely dry.
She was doing it again—thinking too much. Analyzing every word, every reaction, as if she could predict him. As if there was a pattern to follow, a structure to decode.
But Stalin was not a puzzle to be solved.
She had learned that much already.
Her lips parted slightly, about to press further—
Then she stopped.
Something was wrong.
Not with Stalin.
With Shiro.
Airi turned her head slowly.
Shiro had not spoken since Stalin's hesitation.
And for the first time since she had met him—
His grin was gone.
No smirk. No teasing glint in his golden eyes.
Just quiet.
Uncharacteristically quiet.
Airi's chest tightened, though she did not know why.
Shiro had never taken anything seriously. Not fights, not death, not even their imprisonment in this wretched dungeon. He was always laughing, always mocking.
But right now—
He had turned away, focused on the fire. His hands moved with practiced ease, flipping the meat onto the buns Stalin had conjured, but there was something off about him.
He had seen Stalin hesitate.
And he had said nothing.
Airi swallowed.
Why?
Shiro mocked everything.
Yet he had let that moment pass.
She could see the tension in his shoulders—not obvious, not enough for anyone who didn't know him. But Airi had spent enough time with him to notice the small things.
And the fact that he wasn't grinning was a glaring red flag.
It was subtle. A moment barely a breath long.
But she had seen it.
Airi glanced back at Stalin.
His expression remained unreadable, his posture unchanged.
Had he noticed?
Of course, he had.
He noticed everything.
And yet, he did not acknowledge it.
Just like he had not acknowledged the hesitation.
Airi exhaled slowly through her nose.
The dungeon was quiet, save for the faint sizzle of meat, the occasional pop of the fire.
She should leave it alone.
She knew that.
There were bigger concerns—escape, survival, the looming horror of the dungeon's depths.
But her mind refused to let it go.
Something was here, just beneath the surface.
A thought. A realization. A whisper of understanding she could not quite grasp.
She shivered.
Not from the cold.
From memory.
A flicker of something she did not want to recall.
The Stray fight.
The way Stalin had moved—bored, unhurried, like death itself was a tedious inconvenience. The way he had dismantled Stray's attacks with cruel, effortless precision.
The way he had broken him.
Not just his body—his will.
Airi had never seen anything like it.
It had shaken her, though she would never admit it aloud.
And now, as she watched him sit there—silent, unreadable, utterly indifferent—
She felt that same, uneasy feeling settle into her bones.
She pushed it away.
Now was not the time.
Slowly, she turned her gaze back to Shiro.
His expression had returned to normal—lazy, amused, like he hadn't just faltered moments ago.
But Airi knew better.
She had seen it.
Something about Stalin's hesitation had silenced him.
And that—that was what unsettled her the most.
Airi exhaled slowly, steadying herself.
But the thought refused to leave.
Stalin's hesitation. Shiro's silence. The unease curling at the edges of her mind.
And then—
His name.
A flicker of memory, faint yet persistent.
She had thought it before—back when she first heard it. A strange feeling, a vague sense of recognition that should not have existed.
Stalin.
Not Akrhangelsky.
She still couldn't spell that ridiculous last name. Every time she even tried to sound it out in her head, it turned into a tangled mess of consonants and exhaustion.
But Stalin—
That name had stuck.
It felt unique.
No, more than that.
It felt familiar.
Too familiar.
As if it had always been there, buried in the back of her mind. As if she had known it long before they ever met.
Which was impossible.
They had only met for the first time here. In this cursed dungeon. She was sure of it. She had never seen him before, never heard of him. Someone like Stalin—someone like him—was not the kind of person one could forget.
And yet—
She could not shake the feeling that she had known his name all her life.
Her stomach twisted.
She hated things that didn't make sense.
She had felt it then, too. The familiarity. The wrongness.
And it wasn't just the name.
It was the second room.
The vision.
The white and silver chamber, as pristine and untouched as the rest of this forsaken place.
That was when she had seen—
A child.
Standing atop a pile of bodies.
Small, fragile—wrong.
He was young. Too young.
Maybe six? Smaller than the others. Yet he was the only one standing. The only one alive.
And his hands—
Bloodied.
The children beneath him had worn white. Their tiny fingers twisted unnaturally, their vacant eyes wide with something that had long since faded.
The boy was still, eerily still.
Like he had been carved from something colder than stone.
Airi had barely registered it at the time. The vision had been fleeting—just an illusion, a trick of the dungeon, she had told herself.
But now—
Now her heart clenched.
Now she remembered what had unsettled her the most.
That child…
He had reminded her of Stalin.
Her breath caught.
No. That was impossible.
There was no way—no logical way—that was him.
But the resemblance, the feeling—
Airi swallowed.
Was the dungeon playing tricks on her? Manipulating her mind? She wanted to believe that. It would be easier.
And yet…
Her instincts did not waver.
Somehow, somewhere deep inside, she felt it.
That name. That face.
She had known him before she knew him.
She was sure of it.
Airi barely realized she had moved.
She was leaning toward him—just slightly, unconsciously.
Drawn in, just a little too close.
The warmth from earlier, the unfamiliar steadiness she had felt against him—
It wasn't gone.
It was still there.
And for a terrifying second, she was tempted to stay.
Her entire body jolted with the realization.
Airi straightened, composing herself instantly.
Too quickly.
As if she had something to hide.
She forced her expression back to neutrality. Nothing had happened. Nothing at all.
She turned away—
And froze.
Shiro was watching her.
Not smirking.
Not grinning.
Just… watching.
A look she did not recognize.
Something too quiet, too serious.
Almost like—
Concern?
Airi's skin prickled.
That—
That made no sense.
Shiro didn't do concern.
She had seen him mock agony. Laugh in the face of death. He was never serious.
The first time they met—
She remembered.
The floor had been slick with blood, corpses littering the ground.
And Shiro had stepped on a child's skull.
Without hesitation. Without care.
The sickening crunch of bone, the way he had barely even looked down as he crushed it beneath his heel.
She had never mistaken him for a good person.
And yet, right now—
He wasn't smiling.
Not even a little.
Airi's chest tightened.
A second passed. Then another.
And then—
As if nothing had happened, as if the moment had never existed—
Shiro turned back to the fire.
Expression unreadable.
Not amused. Not smug.
Just neutral.
Like he already knew what Airi was thinking about.
Her fingers clenched slightly.
She didn't like this.
None of it.
She needed something—anything—to distract her from the unease crawling beneath her skin.
So she looked to her side.
Looked at him.
Stalin.
Still. Unmoving.
Gazing into the endless corridor of the dungeon.
His expression unreadable as always.
But his eyes—
Something about them—
Airi frowned.
There was something in his gaze. A quietness beyond boredom. A stillness beyond apathy.
A kind of detachment.
Like he wasn't here.
Not really.
Like his mind was elsewhere—somewhere deep, somewhere unreachable.
Somewhere she could not follow.
Airi's gaze flickered down.
The way his fingers rested against his knee—absentminded, loose, barely aware of themselves.
His breathing, slow and steady.
Not asleep. Not awake.
Not present.
Who are you?
The question lodged in her throat.
She swallowed it down.
But when she glanced at his face again—
His foggy red eyes—
For just a second—
They were clear.
Airi's vision swayed.
A sharp, immediate ache bloomed in her skull.
She inhaled sharply, fingers twitching toward her temple—
And just like that—
It was gone.
His gaze was fogged again.
Distant. Empty.
Like nothing had happened.
Airi sat there, pulse unsteady, thoughts spiraling.
Her hands tightened into fists.
Something was wrong.
Something was very, very wrong.
And no matter how much she tried to ignore it—
She couldn't shake the feeling that she was getting too close to something she was never meant to understand.
Airi sat unmoving, her thoughts unraveling in slow, tangled threads. The warmth from the fire flickered at the edges of her senses, but it couldn't reach her—not really. Not where her mind was.
Not where he was.
And then—
"Yo."
Airi flinched.
Hard.
She hadn't heard footsteps. Not even the shift of cloth.
One blink and the empty space before her had transformed into Shiro's far-too-close hand and the unmistakable scent of seared meat.
She jolted, hand instinctively jerking toward her hip—before freezing in the hollow absence of her short sword.
"Relax, Princess," Shiro said, unbothered, as if her reflex had amused him. "You looked like you were spiraling into an existential crisis. Figured I'd intervene before you forgot food was still a thing."
He grinned—eyes bright, mouth full—and offered her a burger with one hand, casually biting into another with the other like he hadn't just startled her half to death.
Airi scowled, chest rising sharply. "Don't do that," she snapped. Her voice was brittle. "You can't just appear like that. Especially near me."
Shiro tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. "Why not? You looked lonely."
She nearly threw the burger at his face.
But she didn't.
Instead, she took it.
Her fingers wrapped around the bread, and immediately, she could tell it wasn't what she was used to.
It was warm. Fresh. The bun was soft and fragrant—lightly toasted, with a faint buttery sheen. The patty was thick, its surface seared to perfection. Steam curled from the meat, and layers of fresh vegetables—lettuce, thin tomato slices, even pickled onions—peeked out beneath a molten layer of cheese. A dark, glossy sauce dripped slowly from the edge, rich and unfamiliar.
Her nose twitched.
"…What is this?"
"A burger," Shiro replied between bites.
"I know it's a burger," she muttered. "But it's not our kind of burger."
He smirked around his food. "Nope. This one's better."
There was something off about the way he said that. Too confident. Too knowing.
As if he'd eaten this exact thing before—long before any kitchen in their world had invented something even remotely like it.
But Airi let the thought pass. She was too tired to chase ghosts in her mind.
She took a bite.
Warmth spilled across her tongue.
The bun was soft but structured, the meat perfectly seasoned, the sauce tangy and sweet, laced with something she couldn't name. Everything about it felt precise, like it had been crafted, not cooked.
Her jaw slowed.
This wasn't food you made in a dungeon. This wasn't something you scavenged from rations and magical conjuring.
This was...
From somewhere else.
She swallowed slowly, gaze drifting past Shiro.
And landed on him.
Stalin hadn't moved.
Not a glance at the food. Not a twitch of interest.
His posture remained straight, still, watchful—like a sentinel carved into the earth itself. His hands rested lightly on his knees, fingers relaxed, too relaxed, like he wasn't really here.
Her grip tightened around the burger.
He hadn't eaten.
She tried to ignore the tug in her chest.
Then—had he slept?
Her eyes narrowed.
Wait... yesterday.
Had that been yesterday?
How long had it been since they entered the dungeon? Two days? Three? Longer?
Time warped here. Moments bled into each other like spilled ink. The air felt the same no matter the hour—damp, heavy, timeless.
She couldn't remember the last time she had seen the sky. Or a sunrise. Or even felt the rhythm of a proper day. Except when she saw the artificial sky from the ice dimension the dungeon sent them.
A hollow realization formed at the back of her mind: She didn't know what day it was anymore.
Airi swallowed tightly.
And just as she glanced back at Stalin again, worry quietly blooming—
Shiro immediately pounced.
"Aww," he cooed, already sauntering back to the fire, "how cute. Are you worrying about your boyfriend?"
Airi nearly choked on her next bite. "He is not—!"
"Uh-huh." He sat down with theatrical laziness, smirk practically glowing. "Sure. That's why you keep staring at him like he's the last cupcake at the royal banquet."
Her face flushed. "I was not staring."
"You were."
"I wasn't—!"
"You are."
She snapped her mouth shut, jaw clenched tight, face burning in the firelight.
She hated him.
She hated how easily he got under her skin. Hated that he was right.
Because she had been staring. She had been worrying.
And that was dangerous.
She took a deep breath, forced her shoulders to square.
Focus.
She was a princess. A trained tactician. Heir to the throne of Nachtal. Her mind was a fortress. Her heart a locked vault. She had no time for juvenile feelings or wandering eyes.
She had made a vow. Not out loud, not written in some sacred tome—but a vow nonetheless.
She would save her kingdom.
No matter the cost.
Her chest tightened.
Her thoughts drifted again—to cold marble halls, once regal and bright, now shadowed with silence. To rooms filled with incense and healing chants that never worked.
To her mother.
The Queen.
Fevered. Frail. Her once-commanding voice reduced to whispers. Her hand trembling as she reached for Airi the day she left.
"Don't come back without hope."
That was what she'd said.
Not goodbye. Not I love you.
Just hope.
And so Airi came here.
To this cursed place.
To chase a legend.
To find an answer in the one place everyone else feared to go.
Her people were dying.
Not slowly. Not metaphorically.
Dying.
Children who once played in palace gardens now lay buried beneath wilted lilies. Loyal guards, unflinching in war, reduced to coughing wrecks in the palace infirmary.
Even the capital's rivers ran quiet now—shops closed, streets deserted, the markets silenced by fear and ash.
And the worst part?
No one knew why.
No transmission. No explanation. The plague didn't move from person to person—it simply was. Striking like lightning. Claiming one, then another.
And Airi's magic—refined, cultivated over decades of training—had done nothing.
She had begged the high mages. Consulted forbidden tomes. Crossed lines she never thought she would.
And all paths pointed here.
To this dungeon.
This crypt of lost gods and twisted truths.
And now she was here—sitting beside a man who wasn't quite a man, with a burger that shouldn't exist and a silence that was beginning to feel like gravity itself.
Her grip on the food slackened.
She couldn't afford this. These moments of warmth. These quiet, dangerous thoughts of comfort.
Not even when they came from him.
Because Stalin wasn't just another boy.
He wasn't a noble.
He wasn't a soldier.
He wasn't a mage.
He was something else entirely.
And whatever that was...
She had the distinct, terrifying feeling she'd known it long before she ever saw his face.
Her gaze drifted back to him.
Still. Silent.
Watching nothing—and everything.
Her chest ached.
There was something in her—something ancient, irrational—that recognized him. That whispered his name like a prayer, or a warning.
I know this feeling.
It feels like I've known him my whole life.
Her lips parted slightly, as if a question might escape on instinct.
But she didn't ask it.
Because the real question wasn't who he was.
It was:
What are you?
And the worst part?
She already knew the answer.
Somehow, deep in the marrow of her bones, behind memories that weren't hers and dreams she'd never had—
She already knew.
And that was what scared her the most.
The fire died with a hiss.
No chant. No sigil. No wind or water magic to smother it. Just a hand—Shiro's—pressing into the embers as if they weren't even hot.
Ash curled upward, gentle and harmless. The last ember winked out like a dying star.
Airi didn't react.
She couldn't.
Her body was too tired to protest, and her mind too numb to flinch. She knew what they were capable of. Stalin and Shiro—two beings who shouldn't exist on the same plane as the rest of them. One moved like a ghost through time; the other sat like a god veiled in silence.
So what was one fire compared to that?
But even in her fatigue, her thoughts wouldn't let her rest. They gnawed at her like roots breaking stone.
Shiro.
She'd noticed it before.
No mana.
Not suppressed, not hidden.
Just... none.
Zero.
Her senses, honed from years of magical training and the constant pressure of court politics, weren't easily fooled. She could sense mana through walls, feel its echoes in bloodlines and artifacts. But with Shiro, there was nothing. An absence so complete it was offensive to her arcane instincts.
And when she asked him about it—directly, after their fight with the snow boss, when she realized her entire magic system is a fake—he'd just grinned and waved her off with some careless joke "A intresting question."
What kind of answer was that?
No mage moved like he did. No rogue could stay completely invisible without aid. Even assassins had faint mana signatures, drawn from shadowcraft or blood-binding or at least minor enchantments.
But Shiro was faster than any of them. Million times faster than them.
And he did it with nothing.
What was he?
Airi's gaze followed him as he padded back toward Stalin—still seated beside her, unmoving. Like a monument.
"We moving?" Shiro asked, voice light as ever. "Or we just gonna nap until this place forgets we exist?"
He didn't wait for an answer. Just kept talking, tapping his chin like he was running through options in his head.
"Some of the earlier dungeons had lamps," he mused. "Y'know, the kind locked behind weird conditions. One needed the blood of a royal elf princess to activate—"
Airi blinked, her lips parting before she could stop herself. Of course when she met them first she gave her blood away like it's nothing but never questioned it. But now,
Why would a dungeon require that?
The question hit her like a cold wind.
That wasn't a normal requirement. Even ancient constructs had logic—old, obscure, but still bound by reason. Why a royal elf princess? Why her blood?
It wasn't just rare. It was specific.
Deliberate.
She swallowed, the question lodging like a pebble in her throat.
"And some of the other ones," Shiro continued, now pacing, "just chucked the lamps at us after we killed whatever was nesting in the room. But this one?"
He glanced around the void-like chamber. Walls too smooth. Air too still.
"Nothing."
He frowned.
"Weird, right?"
Before Airi could respond, Stalin moved.
He stood.
No sound.
No warning.
One moment sitting.
The next—rising with the kind of fluid grace that only came from beings who had long stopped pretending to be human.
Airi's breath caught.
He moved like time obeyed him.
And as he rose, something shifted in the room.
The sleeping bags—flickered.
Not vanished. Not dismissed. They glitched, like broken data in a spatial record.
Gone.
Not packed.
Erased.
Her stomach turned.
She'd seen spatial magic before—used by elite summoners and interdimensional scholars—but this was different. Faster. Cleaner. Stalin hadn't even moved his hand.
She didn't know if that was terrifying or awe-inspiring.
Probably both.
"Stop," Shiro said suddenly.
Airi looked at him.
"What now?" she asked warily.
"Wardrobe change."
Airi blinked. "What?"
Shiro jabbed a finger at Airi with exaggerated offense.
"You gave her a royal—ahh—dress," he whined, drawing out the sound like a child denied candy. "But what about me?"
She stared at him.
Is He was serious.
Airi crossed her arms. "Why does it matter? We're underground. No one can see us."
Shiro gestured toward her with theatrical flourish. "Says the girl wearing a ceremonial twilight silk gown woven with platinum crest-stitching and sunflare embroidery."
She froze.
Her mouth opened. Then shut.
He wasn't wrong.
The dress Stalin had reforged for her yesterday was absurdly regal. It moved like mist, shimmered in certain light, and resisted grime and damage like it was laced with defensive runes.
She hadn't even questioned it. She'd been too busy surviving.
"You gave her that," Shiro added, pointing at Stalin now. "Why can't we look good?"
She turned to Stalin, expecting his usual dispassionate rejection.
Logical.
Efficient.
Cold.
But—
He nodded.
Wait—what?
Airi blinked. Once. Twice.
He agreed?
Without protest?
Stalin, the man who weighed every decision like it was a battle strategy, accepted a wardrobe change because Shiro asked?
Something inside her short-circuited.
Then—Stalin reached out and placed a single gloved finger against the fabric Shiro held.
The cloth shimmered.
Rewove.
Expanded.
Thread twisted and reshaped itself with quiet elegance, forming a noble outfit—deep violet underlayer with a rose-gold trim, high collar, and flexible material designed for movement.
Classy. Subtle. Regal.
The kind of thing a noble from the First Era might wear into battle—or a ball.
And then Stalin turned to himself.
No gestures. No incantation.
Just... changed.
Mana thrummed—so faintly she barely noticed—and his current outfit vanished like it had never existed.
What replaced it—
Wasn't noblewear.
It was strange.
Airi stared.
A long black blazer—double-breasted, modern in cut—draped over a sleek black hoodie. The fabric looked smooth, impossibly sharp, and moved like shadow when he adjusted his stance.
The pants matched—fitted, tactical, clean.
No runes. No house crest. No royal flair.
Just a strange, seamless blend of now and not-here.
What in the gods' names is that?
She'd studied dozens of cultural garbs. Read books on foreign court attire. Researched war uniforms and sacred robes.
But Stalin's current look didn't match any of them.
It wasn't traditional.
It wasn't regional.
It wasn't from any world she knew.
And somehow, it fit him perfectly.
"What... is that?" she murmured aloud, before she could stop herself.
Shiro didn't answer.
But he was grinning.
Not amused.
Just... pleased.
Like a chess player watching a move fall exactly where he wanted it to.
—
Their footsteps echoed faintly as they began walking—Airi just a few paces behind Stalin and Shiro, her boots making soft contact with the smooth stone underfoot.
Her eyes kept flicking, almost unwillingly, to Stalin's back.
Or more precisely, his outfit.
The long, sharply tailored black blazer flowed subtly with his stride, layered over what looked like... a hooded garment? Black, minimal, clean-lined. She couldn't place it. It wasn't armor. It wasn't any traditional robe or noblewear she recognized—not from any kingdom, not from any recorded culture. It was alien. Striking. Almost sleek.
She furrowed her brow.
What kind of clothes are those...? Where is it even from?
In her studies of cross-continental garments, she had seen everything from desert silks to tundra leathers. She had worn ceremonial dresses woven with spellthread and metalsilk. But this—this looked like something from a different world entirely. And Stalin wore it as if it meant something. Not just practicality. Not just fashion.
Was it symbolic? Personal? Or... is it just another piece of him I'll never understand?
The corridor stretched on ahead of them, long and narrowing. Cold torches lined the walls, but none were lit. The faint ambient glow seemed to come from nowhere, casting soft, directionless shadows.
Then something shifted.
Airi slowed.
Her gaze touched the wall—then the one across from it.
Stone. Pattern. Groove.
She blinked.
Wait... didn't I just see this same motif?
She turned her head slightly, narrowing her eyes.
Yes.
The same jagged crest etched into the stone. The same chipped corner in the brick. Again.
Her stomach tightened.
Are we... looping?
Before she could speak, it changed.
A lamp—strange and narrow, almost insectile in shape—blinked into existence several paces ahead of them. There had been nothing. Just more corridor—and then suddenly, it was there.
No sound.
No motion.
Just there.
She didn't flinch. Not even a blink.
Once, she might've.
But that was before the Stray fight. Before the Dungeon's illusions tore through her reality. Before her own magic system twisted into something unrecognizable.
No—now, things appearing out of nowhere were normal.
Or close enough.
She let out a slow breath as Stalin raised his hand. With a soft shhhh, a glass vial slid into the air—called from his spatial magic. Airi recognized it instantly.
Veil Blood. A condensed, protected sample. Royal blood—hers.
Stalin stepped forward, his movements precise, but before he could do anything further—
"Ah-ah—allow me!" Shiro chirped.
In one smooth motion, he plucked the vial from Stalin's hand and dropped a single glimmering bead of crimson onto the top of the lamp.
It sizzled the moment it touched.
A faint pulse rippled outward—like water disturbed in a pond.
Airi instinctively tensed. Braced herself for teleportation. Last time, it had been like being dragged through a tunnel of frozen lightning.
But this time—
There was no sound.
No light.
Just change.
She blinked.
And the corridor was gone.
Completely.
Before her stood towering trees, shadowed and massive, their leaves tinged with violet and silver under an otherworldly moon. Moss crawled over their trunks. A mist hung low to the ground, weaving between roots like something alive.
Airi's breath hitched.
The scent. The trees. The ancient magic in the air—
This was no random forest.
This was the Elvenveil.
She took a step forward, heart racing.
The Elven Forest. The one that bordered her kingdom—sealed off for centuries. No one had crossed it since the accords. Even seeing it from afar was rare.
But how? How were they here? The Dungeon couldn't have led them out. Could it?
No—no, don't hope. Her mind snapped down hard on the thought. Dungeons don't work like that. Nothing here is real unless it wants you to believe it is. This could be another illusion. A copy. A mimicry. Don't believe it—
But her pulse was already rising. Her thoughts spiraling.
Because Shiro and Stalin—
Were gone.
She turned sharply.
Nothing behind her. No corridor. No lamp. No echo of footsteps. Just mist and trees and silence.
"…Stalin?" she called.
Nothing.
Still nothing.
Her heart dropped to her stomach.
They were just here. I didn't even hear them move. How—?
And for the first time since entering the dungeon, the cold crept back in.
Not from the air.
But from the ancient, primal sense of being alone.