The darkness was alive. It wasn't just the absence of light—it breathed, it pressed in, thick and suffocating, seeping into my lungs like poison. I, Airi Valeria Nachtal had faced many horrors as the princess of the Northern Kingdom, but none like this. The dungeon stretched endlessly, its corridors twisting like a waking nightmare. The walls pulsed, slick with a grotesque residue that wasn't quite blood. The air reeked of decay, a sickly-sweet stench that clung to my skin, burrowing into my very bones.

I was trapped.

The word echoed through my mind, steady as a drumbeat. Trapped in this cursed place with no way out. The shadows here weren't just dark corners—they moved. They watched. Eyes gleamed from the crevices, reflecting a pale, unnatural light. Creatures lurked within them, demons with hollow, burning stares, waiting for the moment I would falter.

And then I saw the bodies.

Small, fragile forms littered the floor—children, too young to understand the horror that had claimed them. Their limbs twisted at unnatural angles, faces frozen in screams that had long since faded into silence. Their eyes, still open, still wide with terror, stared into the abyss as if it had stared back at them. Blood—thick, cloying—painted the ground beneath them, pooling in dark, sluggish rivers.

The creatures feasted.

They crouched over the bodies, grotesque and towering, their limbs jerking with unnatural twitches as they tore into flesh. Their eyes burned with hunger, their claws sinking deep with sickening ease. The wet, grotesque sounds of chewing filled the air, broken only by guttural grunts of satisfaction.

One of them paused.

Its head lifted, nostrils flaring. Slowly, its gaze locked onto mine—dead, white eyes like distant stars, hollow yet calculating. A low growl rumbled from its chest, deep and primal, and it stepped forward, claws scraping against stone.

I had seen death before. But this was different. This was inevitable.

Then—footsteps.

Soft, deliberate, unhurried.

Two figures emerged from the doorway, silhouetted by the dim, flickering light. Boys. No older than ten. They did not belong here.

The first, dark-haired and eerily still, watched the scene with cold, unreadable eyes. The second, blond and restless, took in the carnage with a sharp, darting gaze—excited, almost hungry.

Then the blond one grinned. Too wide. Too eager.

"Wait... is that an elf?" His voice came in a rush, edged with something like desperation. His eyes flicked to his companion. "Stalin, we need that blood—come on, we've got to hurry!"

Stalin.

The name rang in my mind like a warning.

Stalin said nothing. He simply stared at me, his gaze peeling me apart, dissecting me like a puzzle he had yet to solve. Then, before I could blink, he was gone.

A breath later, he was behind me.

His arm wrapped around my neck—not cruel, not violent, but firm. Unshakable. The grip of someone who had done this before. His presence wasn't just restraint; it was control. A silent command to stay still.

And then the world erupted.

A scream split the air.

Not human. Not even remotely human.

The creatures convulsed, their grotesque feasting interrupted. Their bodies shredded—not by blade, not by spell, but by something unseen. Something unstoppable. Flesh and bone vanished, torn apart in an instant, reduced to nothing but gore and dust.

"Shiro." Stalin's voice was quiet. Unshaken.

The blond boy, Shiro, didn't flinch. His dark blue eyes shone with something wild, something thrilled. He strode toward me, crouching just close enough that I could see the feverish gleam in his gaze.

"An elf," he murmured, almost reverent. "A real elf."

Then his grin widened, twisting into something sharper. "Do you know what this means, Stalin?" His voice was soft, but electric. "Do you know what we can do with this?"

Stalin didn't answer. He simply watched.

Shiro's manic energy faded for a brief moment, replaced by a calculating sharpness. "We're leaving," he said, voice lowering. "But—"

The ground cracked beneath us.

A deep, shuddering tremor rolled through the dungeon. The walls buckled, the floor split open. The abyss reached for me.

Falling.

The sensation clawed at my stomach, the weight of gravity vanishing in an instant. But before I could be swallowed whole, Stalin's grip tightened around my waist.

And then—he stopped moving.

No, not just him.

Everything stopped.

The air thickened. The dungeon itself seemed to freeze in place. The crushing force around us grew unbearable, pressing in from all sides.

Then came the crack—louder than before.

And Stalin broke apart.

His body tore—head, limbs, torso—split cleanly, violently. Blood painted the air in a gruesome display, but his eyes… his eyes still stared at me. Alive. Watching.

Shiro exhaled through his teeth. "You really can't stay dead, can you?" His voice was somewhere between exasperation and amusement.

The monstrous shadow that had emerged from the abyss lunged.

Shiro moved.

His katana flickered into existence, meeting the beast's claws in a violent clash. The impact shook the chamber, the force sending him skidding backward, boots scraping against stone. Dust rained from above.

He barely seemed to notice.

Straightening, he dusted off his sleeve with an almost casual air. "Seriously. Ruining the vibe."

The creature roared. It lunged again.

This time, Shiro didn't dodge.

His blade met flesh. A sickening crunch. Black blood sprayed in dark arcs as the creature howled, its severed limb twisting in the air before vanishing into smoke.

And then, just like that—Stalin was back.

And then—he was whole again.

Seamlessly, impossibly, as if his death had been nothing more than a fleeting inconvenience.

Whole. Untouched. Standing in the darkness as if nothing had ever happened.

I stared.Who...no what was he even?.

Shiro only sighed, shaking his head towards Stalin. "Like a cockroach," he muttered. "I swear, it's impossible to get used to."

The monster didn't die. It erased, fading into nothingness. The silence that followed was worse than the battle itself.

Stalin turned to me at last. His gaze, cold and measuring, sent a chill down my spine.

Shiro stepped forward, his grin returning. "Well, elf girl," he murmured, tilting his head. "Looks like you're coming with us."

I swallowed. "I—I don't even know who you are."

Shiro laughed. "Trust us?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Oh, you really don't have a choice."

He pulled a small, ornate vial from his cloak and held it out. "Just a few drops." A casual tone, but there was an edge beneath it. "It's the price for staying alive down here."

My heart hammered. I had no reason to trust them. No reason to comply.

But I had even less reason to refuse.

I pressed the vial to the shallow cut on my palm. A few drops fell inside, swirling with a faint, eerie glow.

Shiro's grin widened. "Perfect."

Stalin turned. "We move. Now."

And just like that, the two boys disappeared into the darkness.

With a last glance at the lifeless children behind me, I swallowed my fear—and followed.