Simo Häyhä was once a man of the land. His life was straightforward, shaped by long winters and Finland's quiet, endless forests. He would wake before dawn, rifle in hand, and slip into the woods in search of game. Deer, hares, foxes—each fell to his steady aim. The rhythm of life followed the seasons, a constant, predictable flow that he took for granted.
Then came the day he met the bear.
It was massive, a wall of muscle and fur that prowled the forest floor with an unsettling grace. Simo froze, his mind stilled by awe and something else—a sliver of fear he had rarely felt. The bear's eyes locked onto him, and then it roared, a sound that shook the earth beneath him and reverberated in his bones. Instinctively, he raised his rifle and fired. The bullet struck, but the bear only flinched, its rage ignited.
He fired again. And again. But with each shot, the creature seemed to grow angrier, its snarl deepening as it bore down on him. Simo's heart thudded, a panicked rhythm that seemed to sync with the bear's thunderous steps. This was no ordinary hunt. For the first time, he was prey.
He turned and ran, fear sharpening his senses as he weaved through branches and undergrowth, lungs burning with each breath. The bear was relentless, crashing after him, faster than he could ever have anticipated. Just as he felt the creature's breath close on his heels, it stumbled—its leg caught in a hidden bear trap.
He stopped, staring at the trapped beast. Its furious, wild eyes held his own, each one a mirror of raw, unfiltered survival. In that frozen moment, Simo felt the power of fear, something primal and undeniable. He understood that fear wasn't simply a weakness but a force, a weapon that could halt even the most formidable enemy.
Years later, he wielded that understanding on the battlefield. When his homeland was invaded by the Russians, he made his mark in history. All humans commonly feared near-death experiences, and he used that common fear. He merged with the snow, shot a few, and they dispersed. He shot a couple more, 41, 42, 43, 44, he was counting each person that he had killed. Fear became his shield, his weapon, his purpose. And thus, he was called the White Death.
One evening, Simo returned to his cabin, feeling satisfied after another successful day of hunting. As he slumped onto his bed, he noticed the shadows creeping in around him. At first, he dismissed it as the onset of night, but the sun had barely set. A chill swept through the cabin, and the darkness seemed to press in on him, as if the night itself had turned against him. It was then that he realized the shadows were growing far too quickly. Instinctively, he reached for his rifle, but before he could take aim, the darkness surged forward, engulfing him entirely.
He was pulled into a vast, cold void, an endless descent where nothing felt real. He lost all sense of time and direction, only feeling a disorienting, bone-deep chill as he tumbled through the darkness.
When he opened his eyes, Simo found himself in a wasteland, a strange and hostile realm. Here, there was no forest, no snow—just a desolate expanse stretching as far as he could see. Silence surrounded him, punctuated only by the occasional crackle of energy in the sky. Days blurred together in a relentless solitude that gnawed at his mind. The man who once thrived in quiet isolation now felt his sanity fraying in the vast emptiness. 45, 46, 47, 48... He counted numbers to make sure his sanity was kept intact.
But then, a hooded figure appeared.
The stranger spoke little, but he saw in Simo something worthy of knowledge. From him, Simo learned about the Shattered Veil, a realm between worlds, and about tears—a power that could bend reality itself. Each lesson sparked a new challenge, something Simo could grasp onto, a purpose in the barren void. He trained for days, weeks, perhaps longer, mastering the art of manipulating these tears until it became almost instinctual.
One day, he dared to manifest his greatest weapon: fear itself.
The tear opened, and at first, he felt only the cold embrace of the Veil. But then a deeper chill washed over him, something unsettling, primal. A shadow poured out of the tear, growing and shifting until it loomed over him, a reflection of the terror he had so long controlled. For the first time since the bear, he felt true, unrestrained fear, something that clawed into his very soul.
He quickly closed the tear, his breath ragged, hands trembling.
The hooded figure watched in silence, then stepped forward. "Fear isn't one-sided here," the figure intoned. "Power in the Veil cuts both ways. Whatever you summon, you must face yourself."
From that day on, Simo practiced control—not only of his powers but of his own fear. He forged an unbreakable mask, a mental barrier against the shadows he might conjure. This new armor allowed him to summon fear without being consumed by it, from that day on Simo never revealed his true self again.
The figure, satisfied with Simo's progress, finally spoke of a tournament, an arena where those who wielded the powers of the Veil could truly test their strength.
Simo felt a thrill he hadn't known in years. The promise of a challenge stirred something deep within him—a hunger for more than mere survival. Here, in the heart of the Shattered Veil, he would push himself, face enemies and allies alike, and perhaps, discover what else this strange new realm held for him.
And so, Simo accepted the invitation, stepping into the unknown with the certainty of a man who feared nothing
---
Leonidas had successfully shattered Simo's facade. Now, Simo could no longer manifest "fear" unless he intended to frighten himself.
"Why don't you try manifesting fear again?" Leonidas boomed, his voice echoing through the space.
"This... is new..." Simo replied, struggling to find the right words. It had been so long since he could express himself freely, and he hated the feeling. He longed to summon fear again, but he found himself unable to do so. Creating a new facade felt impossible; it had taken him years to construct the last one. How long would it take to build another?
In a moment of desperation, Simo tore open a rift and infused it with "bounce." He aimed at the ground and unleashed his energy, propelling the ground downwards.
"What... is happening?!" Leonidas exclaimed as he plummeted.
"It's... bouncing..." Simo replied, watching in astonishment.
Now permanently scarred by his shattered facade, Simo's manifestations would be unpredictable. This was his new psyche: "The Unraveled."