The moment they crossed the threshold, reality fractured.
Outside, the tower had loomed as a slender stone relic—ivy-clad, its windows reminiscent of forgotten prayers, and utterly devoid of a door. But once inside...
Inside was impossible.
The circular chamber unfurled into vaulted space that swirled upward in a spiral of ethereal light—as though the very moon had lent its glow to a ceiling too distant to claim. Walls of ancient, impossibly smooth stone stretched beyond reason, etched faintly with silver runes that wound like living vines, pulsing softly as if imbued with breath and secret purpose. The stones bore the weight of untold centuries, yet there was not a speck of dust, no hint of decay or age—only a cool, crystalline clarity, as though the place had waited, silently and expectantly, for a long-forgotten guest.
In that hallowed stillness, the air itself seemed to hold its breath, not in emptiness but in a state of rapt attention. The tower, it appeared, was listening.
Then Shiro shattered the quiet.
"Yo! Is this place even real?" His voice bounced off the gleaming floor as he darted forward, his boots echoing hollowly across the polished tile. "Did the whole tower just gaslight us?"
He slid with the playful ease of a trickster on the slick surface, laughing as he performed a brief, theatrical tumble onto a nearby bench hewn from moonstone and intricately spiraled wood. "I call this bed," he declared, as if the absurdity of it all were the very point.
Airi blinked, her senses still struggling to anchor her in a reality that now felt more like someone else's half-remembered dream. She stood transfixed, caught between wonder and a subtle grief—a notion that, perhaps, she was adrift in another's memory.
Stalin, in his silent way, offered no retort. He strode deeper into the vast room, hands deep in the pockets of his coat, his eyes scanning every detail as if he distrusted even the air he breathed, or if he were consulting an invisible map known only to him. He circled the main chamber with a measured, cautious grace, pausing briefly to rest a hand upon a stone pillar etched with ancient sigils. Then, without a word, he turned and began his exit through the open archway—the doorless portal that, like an ever-hollow rectangle, gaped into nothingness, unwavering and eternal.
Airi's gaze lingered on him as he vanished. A quiet tug stirred within her chest—a faint, insistent pull. She did not know why she cared. Yet, as her fingers curled in subtle defiance at her side, a soft whisper urged, Go after him.
She quickly smothered the thought. Too sharp, too insistent. Resolute, she turned away from the threshold and began to wander deeper into the tower's labyrinthine heart.
Overhead, narrow bridges arched across levels as though spun from the threads of thought itself, delicate and unsupported. Each floor revealed its own peculiar character—one encircled by spiraling shelves laden with arcane tomes; another bathed in a tender blue light reminiscent of a crystalline interior. A hollow, forlorn echo of wind whispered through unseen corridors, leaving only the impression that the tower exhaled dreams.
At the foot of a staircase whose steps shimmered with half-imagined light, Airi paused. In the polished stone, her reflection appeared strangely out of sync—a spectral double that was not darker, nor flawed, but achingly distant, as if she were glimpsing a version of herself from a world half-remembered.
Somewhere above, Shiro's voice rang out once more, irreverent and carefree: "This place has no toilets! It's magic and majestic and all that, but c'mon!"
A faint smile tugged at Airi's lips in reply, though her eyes soon wandered back to the doorless threshold, where Stalin had vanished into the swirling mountain air.
This tower, with all its sumptuous, impossible beauty, had become a sanctuary—a resting place that whispered of solitude and hidden promises. Yet for reasons she could neither articulate nor fully understand, it felt inexplicably lonelier without him in its midst.
And so, in that suspended moment between wonder and longing, Airi realized that though the tower's silence might cradle her in its enigmatic embrace, its secrets—and the echoes of those who had passed through it—would continue to haunt every step she took in its otherworldly corridors.
—
Shiro sprang to life from the moonstone bench, as if struck by a sudden jolt of lightning—a burst of kinetic purpose only he could comprehend.
"I smell potential," he murmured, his eyes glinting with mischief as he veered off toward one of the arched alcoves lining the tower's first level. There, wedged between the curving outer wall and the base of a slender, spiraling staircase, lay an inconspicuous niche. An ancient oaken shelf, steeped in secrecy, stood silently within the recess. Its surface bore runic engravings that shimmered with a faint, otherworldly light when his hand neared. Shiro arched a brow in amusement.
"Okay... secret pantry vibes. Let's see what you're hiding, tower," he whispered.
At his touch, the central rune clicked softly. With the gentle sigh of displaced air, the wooden facade slid inward, revealing a treasure trove that defied the ravages of time: shelves lined with glimmering jars filled with mysterious nectars, cured meats delicately wrapped in enchanted leaf-foil, vibrant vegetables preserved in an enchantment that defied decay, and bundles of herbs still gleaming with a dew that seemed to capture the essence of morning. Each item, miraculously untouched by time's relentless march, exuded a quiet promise of divine hospitality.
A grin blossomed on his face. "This," he intoned reverently, "is divine hospitality."
Without a word to anyone, Shiro moved with an effortless grace toward a recessed stone hearth along the tower's western curve. At first glance, the hearth appeared dormant—cold and ancient—but as he uttered a few words in a dialect long since muted by time, flintstone runes sparked into life at its base. Hollow iron vents exhaled slow, steady flames into the cooking basin, transforming the hearth into a forge that had become unexpectedly friendly.
Ingredients appeared in his deft hands, and, as if conjured by some domestic magic rather than necessity, a set of impeccably maintained knives emerged from within his coat. With a practiced ease born of a life lived between the chaos of battlefields and clandestine affairs, Shiro began to chop, sear, and season. His motions were as fluid and graceful as a dance—a quiet symphony of culinary mastery in the midst of a strange and ancient sanctuary.
Above, on the middle floor—a realm that might once have been a scriptorium or a repository of arcane lore—glassless windows bathed the room in surreal mountain light, casting soft, indigo rays upon the stone. And then, unexpectedly, a scent rose to greet Airi.
Warm spices mingled with the caramelized sweetness of onions, roasted garlic folded into the rich aroma of sweet roots, and the savory tang of pan-seared venison—scents that did more than fill the air; they embraced it wholly, weaving themselves into every fiber of the room.
Her stomach gave a quiet protest—a low, familiar growl that betrayed the reverence she felt. Stunned, Airi blinked. How could a man as unrestrained and, in her eyes, as lunatic as Shiro wield such gastronomic magic?
She moved to the edge of the spiral and peered down, watching him with a mixture of awe and exasperation. There, amid the gentle chaos of the kitchen, Shiro hummed a tune slightly off-key, his focus unwavering as he flambéed a pan with the finesse of a royal chef mid-ceremony.
This was no mere sustenance—it was an art form that transcended even the hallowed halls of palace kitchens, where chefs trained for fifteen long years to master the royal culinary academies. Here, Shiro was both artist and warrior, his humming a gentle counterpoint to the passion with which he turned simple ingredients into an unforgettable banquet. He was carefree, utterly engrossed in his craft, and, for all her scorn, there was a spark of genuine happiness in his expression.
Airi leaned back against a carved stone pillar, crossing her arms as she observed the curling tendrils of smoke rising like incense into the lofty air. Her thoughts slowed, growing measured and cautious—a quiet vigilance that masked something tender beneath. Yet she could not help but think: He's insane, she reminded herself, even if that very madness was laced with genius.
Her eyes drifted back to the hollow door frame—a silent sentinel where Stalin had vanished into the mountain air. The absence of his presence was palpable, like the stillness of a sword laid carelessly in the grass, unmoving yet ever watchful. And, for reasons she struggled to define, a surge of something indefinable welled up within her.
She shook the thought away. "I'm not here to catch feelings," she murmured under her breath, her footsteps echoing softly against the immaculate stone. And yet, the heady aroma of Shiro's cooking pursued her relentlessly down the corridor—a memory, vivid and unyielding, that refused to fade into oblivion.
Shiro cocked his head as he caught the echo of Airi's silent musings. "Catch feelings for who?" he asked casually, the words airy and teasing. "Stalin?"
At his question, Airi's cheeks burned scarlet, and she nearly whipped a protest from her lips. "What—how can you say that?" she managed, her tone a tumult of indignation and embarrassment.
With a roguish smile, Shiro shrugged as if the remark were the most natural thing in the world. "Can't blame you," he drawled, his voice laced with mischievous candor. "If I were a girl, I'd pounce on him the very moment our eyes met."
Airi's gaze snapped to him, incredulous. How could he speak so flippantly of a boy like Stalin? His nonchalance both infuriated and fascinated her. And the fact he is still 10....—then again they aren't normal Boy.
Without missing a beat, Shiro returned to his culinary artistry. His hands moved with an almost mesmerizing skill as he assembled an array of dishes that defied expectation—plates of vibrant, steaming delicacies whose aromas hinted at forbidden spices and forgotten feasts. The food looked absolute insane in its perfection: shards of glistening fruit, succulent morsels draped in shimmering sauces, and sculpted vegetables arranged like edible works of art. With one final flourish, he carried the dishes to a long, artfully set dining table and began to munch on his own creations, savoring each bite with a poet's appreciation for beauty in chaos.
He glanced over his shoulder at Airi, still standing by the window and lost in silent reverie. "Come on," he called softly, a teasing lilt in his tone. "Eat. Your boyfriend will come back, don't worry."
Airi's scowl deepened at his words. "Shut up," she snapped, though her tone—elegant and incisive—betrayed the undercurrent of affection that ran just beneath her irritation. With an exasperated sigh, she walked toward the table, took a seat, and began to eat with a graceful determination that mingled defiance and subtle vulnerability.
After a small, measured pause in which the only sound was the quiet clink of her utensils against polished porcelain, Shiro leaned forward with a conspiratorial gleam. "So," he said in a low, teasing murmur, "you didn't disagree about calling him your boyfriend…"
Airi's scowl deepened further, the gesture a silent rebuke that vibrated with both amusement and exasperation. In that moment, the tower's silent mysteries faded into the background, leaving only the unexpected intimacy of shared words and unspoken truths—each as delicate, dangerous, and unforgettable as the culinary art laid before her.
In an instant, as if propelled by an unseen current of mischief and speed, Shiro sprang to his feet. His movements were a blur—a dance of caprice and daring. With an effortless burst of kinetic power, he swept aside every chair to the middle floor as though rearranging the very layout of destiny, leaving only two behind: the solitary seat he now commandeered and the single chair set deliberately at Airi's right.
Almost immediately, a presence filled the space. Stalin appeared without ceremony—his entrance was as natural and inevitable as a tide drawn by the moon. He strode forward with silent purpose, bypassing the curious display of culinary marvels without so much as a glance at the elaborate spread. In the quiet chamber, where each polished surface and every whispered ray of lunar light had held its breath, he simply sat beside Airi at the solitary table—the only one remaining as if ordained by fate.
Airi's heart quickened, and her mind spiraled into tumultuous inner cadence. How shamelessly audacious! How daringly calculated! The very air shimmered with the unspoken scheming of Shiro—a spectacle orchestrated to rattle the fragile veneer of decorum she had known all her life as a princess of the kingdom. In that moment, regal refinement waged a private war with the raw, chaotic pulse of youthful liberty that Shiro embodied.
Her thoughts swirled like intricate tapestries woven with threads of duty, expectation, and a secret, blossoming defiance. Must I always be the composed heir, the dutiful emblem of royal legacy? she silently lamented, as she regarded the scene unfolding before her. Here, in the midst of whimsical rebellion and calculated audacity, she felt both exposed and exalted—a living contradiction. Stalin's serene composure, the quiet authority in the way he entered and claimed his space, confirmed a truth she had long suspected: the tapestry of power and affection within these walls was more mutable, more dangerous, and infinitely more intoxicating than any scripted ceremony of courtly life.
Stalin, unfazed by the disruption, began to eat with a casual, almost imperious grace—each bite measured and deliberate, as if he were savoring not merely sustenance but the subtle victory of his own silent dominion. His calm indifference to the riotous performance surrounding him only magnified the effect on Airi. Every morsel he consumed seemed to underscore the gulf between the unyielding fate he represented and the unscripted, unpredictable passion that Shiro's capricious theatrics evoked.
The realization struck her with surprising clarity amid the swirl of emotions: Shiro's scheme was no random display, but a deliberate provocation—a dare, a gauntlet thrown before her eyes. The move was not merely to disrupt the mundane, but to remind her of the duality that haunted her soul. Was she to remain the statuesque princess, draped in the heavy obligations of her lineage? Or could she dare to embrace that wild, defiant cadence, even for a fleeting, stolen moment?
As the muted sounds of cutlery and quiet conversation mingled with the echo of laughter and the spectral remnant of Shiro's antics, Airi's thoughts became a quiet storm. I have lived my life as the embodiment of my kingdom's expectations—detached, measured, ever-dutiful. Yet here, in this unexpected collision of the sublime and the absurd, I feel the pulse of something more. Something dangerous and tender in its rebellion.
The taste of rebellion, of fleeting freedom, mingled on her tongue with the faintest tang of fear—a reminder that in the realm of kings and conspiracies, vulnerability was both a liability and a potent weapon.
Stalin's gaze, foggy and unreadable, met hers beside the chair. His silence was eloquent—a promise of what lay beneath his imperious calm. And then, almost conspiratorially, as if to punctuate the tableau, Shiro quipped in that familiar, teasing tone, "So, princess, you still haven't disowned me for calling him your boyfriend?"
Airi's scowl deepened, a regal fire kindling behind her cool facade. The moment stretched—between the mischievous laughter that danced in Shiro's eyes and the unyielding, stoic presence of Stalin beside her—leaving her suspended in a delicate balance of duty and desire, of regal composure and wild, unspoken yearning.
In that enchanted, chaotic banquet of emotions, Airi felt the weight of her heritage and the allure of defiance. With a measured, elegant sigh that carried both resignation and resolve, she lifted her fork and began to eat—not as a princess ensnared by tradition, but as a soul daring to write her own story, even amidst the absolute, ineffable chaos of the tower without a door.
Stalin finished his meal in a measured hush, setting down his utensils with a finality that resonated through the chamber's silence. Airi, still carefully savoring the remains of her plate, glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Shiro, in contrast, continued munching everything within arm's reach, humming snippets of off-key tunes as though oblivious to the undercurrent of tension.
Then, as if recalling some long-forgotten errand, Stalin lifted his palm, revealing a necklace—the chain filigreed with subtle runes, the centerpiece a dazzling shard that gleamed like twilight captured in crystal. He flicked it upward in one smooth motion, and before Airi could voice a question, he leaned in to clasp it gently around her neck.
Airi's pulse rattled, and her cheeks grew warm at the sudden proximity. Every inch of her skin felt shockingly aware of his presence—of the quiet strength coiled in his measured gestures. She tried to speak, but words faltered in her throat. Shiro merely snickered, a low, knowing chuckle that insinuated he found the moment far too entertaining.
Stalin's voice, quiet and calm, explained, "This is a shard left behind by Hollowing. They call it the Echo Shard of Unwritten." He paused, dark eyes meeting hers in a brief, meaningful gaze. "It has the power to cancel out spells or attacks by devouring the moment they're initiated—consuming the time of an attack before it even unfolds."
At his words, a chill slithered through Airi's spine like a serpentine whisper. The shard rested cold against her collarbone, pulsing faintly with a life of its own, as if acknowledging the unspoken gravity of what it could do. Her mind reeled with the implications—a relic of Hollowing that manipulated the very fabric of causality was clasped around her neck. An odd mixture of gratitude and dread twisted in her chest.
Before she could gather her thoughts, Stalin's tone turned cautionary, so subdued she had to strain to catch every syllable: "You shouldn't use arcane arts here. The Refracted Will may be summoned again if you do."
Airi swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat. The Refracted Will—she knew too little about it, yet each mention felt like a dagger's threat. She forced her gaze to the table, refusing to reveal her apprehension. Behind her, the tower walls seemed to echo Stalin's warning, the air thinning as though it, too, feared the conjuring of that nameless horror.
Still munching contentedly, Shiro observed the interplay with mischievous fascination, an unspoken amusement dancing in his eyes. Meanwhile, Airi pressed her fingers to the shard, brushing its cool surface as a hundred questions flickered through her thoughts.
In the hush that followed, she mustered the poise befitting a princess of her kingdom—a legacy deeply ingrained, though recently challenged by the surreal upheaval of the Dungeon. Silently, she thanked him with a dip of her head. For a moment, the chill at her spine receded, replaced by a bracing conviction. Whether Stalin was compelled by duty, strategy, or something else entirely, the burden—and the guard—of this Echo Shard now belonged to her.
She lifted her eyes and met his gaze, determined that neither the silent swirl of secrecy nor the lurking horrors would claim her spirit. And in the calm that settled between them, she realized that this fleeting, charged moment in the tower's ancient hush might shape the path ahead—binding their fates tighter than even they might have foreseen.