The city of Veybridge was dying, and nobody wanted to admit it.
Buildings leaned at odd angles, like drunks swaying after a long night. Streets cracked open into glowing fissures that pulsed with something that looked like fire—but burned colder than ice. And above, the sky was stitched with seams of red light, as if reality itself were coming undone.
Most people did the same thing they always did when the Veilborn came crawling out of those seams: they screamed, they ran, they prayed.
Yurin Crimson didn't.
He adjusted the collar of his black coat, brushed ash off his shoulder, and sighed.
"Another Tuesday."
The creature in front of him screeched—an amalgamation of human limbs sewn together in the wrong order, its face a mask of melted porcelain, its mouth stretching far too wide. The thing lurched forward, its jagged arm like a scythe.
The crowd scattered, tripping over one another in panic. Someone yelled:
"Help! Somebody, please! The guards—where are the guards!?"
The guards weren't coming. They rarely did.
Yurin tilted his head, studying the monster's mask-face with an unsettling calm. His red eyes flickered, as if some hidden ember glowed behind them.
He whispered, almost lazily:
"Strip."
The world shuddered.
It was subtle—like someone tugging a thread out of fabric. The monster's porcelain mask cracked down the middle, and behind it was no face at all. Just a hollow void, swirling with something too infinite for this world.
The moment the mask split, the creature spasmed and shrieked—no longer a monster, but a truth laid bare. Its body imploded inward, vanishing like smoke sucked into a vacuum.
And just like that, silence.
The people stared at Yurin. He ignored them. His hand trembled slightly as he looked at his palm. Thin black lines had spread across his skin, pulsing faintly before fading.
Every time he used this power, it left a mark.
A woman stumbled forward, clutching her child, tears streaming down her face.
"You… you saved us. Who are you?"
Yurin smiled politely. But his eyes… his eyes were the kind of calm that made people uneasy.
"Just someone who enjoys pulling masks off liars."
The woman didn't understand. Nobody ever did.
Before anyone could question him further, a voice called out from the rooftops.
"Well, well. The rumors were true. The Maskbreaker is real."
Yurin's gaze flicked upward. A figure leapt down, landing in front of him in a crouch. Her long coat whipped in the wind, black leather straps fastened across it like chains. Pale skin, raven hair, and a smirk that said she'd already judged him ten different ways.
Evelyn Blackthorn.
Her dark eyes scanned him like a predator. "You strip the lies off reality itself. Dangerous hobby. People burn witches for less."
"Good thing I don't melt easily," Yurin replied, voice flat but edged with sarcasm.
Before Evelyn could answer, the ground rumbled. The fissures widened.
Another Veilborn began to crawl out, larger than the first—its body made of hundreds of twitching hands, dragging itself forward like a grotesque centipede.
The crowd screamed again. But this time, someone else stepped in.
A tall man sprinted into the fray, his hair wild, his jaw set like iron. He swung his fist, and flames burst from his knuckles—not normal fire, but fire that resonated, echoing with the sound of clashing swords and war drums.
Damien Holt.
The impact roared. The Veilborn screeched as half its limbs went up in flames. Damien grinned, reckless. "Don't just stand there! If you've got tricks, now's the time!"
Yurin didn't move immediately. He was watching. Calculating. Something in his calmness was off—like he wasn't fighting to survive, but to learn.
The flames weren't enough. The monster regenerated, twitching limbs reforming, reaching for Damien. Before it struck, a voice rang clear.
"Fall."
A page of paper fluttered in the air. A woman stood at the edge of the square, her hands ink-stained, her expression soft but unyielding. The glowing script on the page seared itself into reality.
And the monster collapsed. As if the concept of standing had been ripped away from it.
Clara Winslow.
The crowd gawked. Three strangers. Three different powers. And all of them drawn here by the same kind of inevitability.
Yurin finally chuckled, a low sound that unsettled even his newfound allies.
"Looks like the mask of this city is peeling off faster than expected."
Evelyn raised an eyebrow. "You talk like you've seen this before."
Damien frowned, flames still flickering in his fists. "Yeah. You sound way too calm for someone who almost got gutted."
Clara's eyes narrowed. She clutched her ink-stained paper tighter. "…Who are you, Yurin Crimson?"
For a moment, silence. The world seemed to hold its breath.
Yurin's smile widened just a fraction.
"Who am I? That depends. Do you want the mask… or the truth?"
The fissure beneath their feet cracked open wider, glowing crimson, threatening to swallow the entire square. The Veilborn began to pour out in dozens.
And Yurin, instead of fear—
laughed.
[Chapter One — End]