HOLLOW ASCENDING
CHAPTER 1: THE PEELING
The world ended on a Tuesday.
Seven years ago, at exactly 3:47 PM Greenwich Mean Time, reality tore.
It started in London—a vertical split in the air above the Thames, barely visible at first, like a hairline crack in glass. Within seconds, it widened. Witnesses described it as watching the sky unzip, revealing something underneath. Not darkness. Not light. Something that hurt to perceive, that made the eyes water and the mind recoil.
Then the screaming started.
What emerged from that first tear defied description. The reports that survived called them "manifestations of absence"—creatures that existed in the spaces between thoughts, feeding on the gaps in human perception. A businessman walking past the London Eye simply stopped existing, his briefcase clattering to the ground, his shadow remaining on the pavement with no body to cast it. A mother holding her child's hand found herself gripping empty air, her daughter's laughter still echoing in her ears but the source gone, erased.
The Peeling spread like a contagion. Within hours, tears opened across every continent. São Paulo. Tokyo. Cairo. New York. Moscow. Each one exposing the layer beneath reality—a dimension that would come to be known as the Hollows.
The creatures that poured through weren't monsters in any traditional sense. They were fears made flesh. Claustrophobia manifested as walls that closed in even in open spaces, crushing victims into compressed cubes of meat and bone. Abandonment took the form of child-shaped voids that whispered your name in the voices of everyone who'd ever left you, and if you looked at them, you forgot you'd ever been loved at all.
Humanity's weapons were useless. Bullets passed through them. Explosives only widened the tears. Nuclear strikes on the largest Hollows in Shanghai resulted in the entire province becoming a dead zone where physics itself stopped functioning reliably—water flowed upward, time moved in circles, and anyone who entered aged decades in minutes before crumbling to dust.
In the first week, two billion people died.
In the first month, civilization collapsed.
Governments fell. Nations fractured. The survivors huddled in whatever safe zones they could find, watching the sky for new tears, listening for the telltale sound—like fabric ripping, but felt in the bones rather than heard with the ears.
Then, three months into the apocalypse, something changed.
A teenager in what remained of Seoul entered a Hollow and came back out. Alive. Changed.
Her name was Min Yuri, and she moved differently now—faster, stronger, her reflexes superhuman. More importantly, she could hurt them. The creatures that couldn't be touched by conventional weapons fell to her bare hands, dissolving into black mist when she struck them.
She was the first Descender.
Within weeks, more emerged. People who could enter the Hollows and survive, who could fight the manifestations and return with strange abilities. Scientists scrambled to understand why. The prevailing theory suggested that certain individuals possessed a rare compatibility with Hollow energy—their bodies could adapt, evolve, resonate with that lightless dimension.
They became humanity's last hope.
The Descender Guild System was established. Those who could fight were ranked based on their capabilities:
E-Rank — Barely compatible. Could survive shallow Hollows for short periods. Mortality rate: 68%.
D-Rank — Moderate compatibility. Could clear minor Hollows solo. Mortality rate: 45%.
C-Rank — Significant compatibility. Could lead teams into mid-level Hollows. Mortality rate: 28%.
B-Rank — High compatibility. Could challenge deep Hollows. Mortality rate: 15%.
A-Rank — Exceptional compatibility. Could clear catastrophic-class Hollows. Mortality rate: 8%.
S-Rank — Apex compatibility. Could challenge abyssal-class Hollows alone. Mortality rate: Unknown. (Too few exist for statistical relevance.)
Cities reorganized around Descender Guilds. Entire economies restructured to support them. They were heroes. Celebrities. Humanity's immune system fighting off a dimensional infection.
But seven years later, the Peeling hadn't stopped.
If anything, it was accelerating.
Present Day — Mizun Chi City, Sector 7 Residential Zone
The alarm clock's shrill cry cut through the pre-dawn darkness at 5:30 AM.
Shin Jiwoo's hand shot out from under the threadbare blanket, slapping the ancient device into silence. For a moment, he lay still in the darkness of his cramped room, staring at the water-stained ceiling. The apartment was quiet except for the ever-present hum of the Hollow Barrier generators that encircled the city—a low vibration that you felt in your teeth, a constant reminder that safety was maintained by machines that could fail at any moment.
He dragged himself upright, every muscle protesting. Yesterday's Hollow expedition had left him bruised along his ribs where he'd been thrown into a wall by a D-class manifestation. The team leader had stepped in before it could finish him off. Again.
Pathetic, he thought, not for the first time.
Black hair disheveled, eyes heavy with exhaustion that went deeper than mere sleep deprivation, Jiwoo shuffled out of his room. The apartment was barely 400 square feet—one bedroom he'd given to Haeun, one closet-sized space for himself, a bathroom with a constantly dripping faucet they couldn't afford to fix, and a combined kitchen-living area that smelled perpetually of mildew and cheap instant noodles.
Light was already spilling from under Haeun's door.
She emerged a moment later, already dressed in her school uniform—a secondhand set he'd bought from a street market, the hem unevenly patched where the previous owner had torn it. At fourteen, Shin Haeun had their mother's features: delicate bone structure, warm brown eyes, a smile that seemed too bright for the world they lived in.
"Oppa, you're finally awake!" She beamed at him, slinging her worn backpack over one shoulder. "I'm heading to school early. Study group for the math exam."
Jiwoo nodded, shuffling toward the kitchen. His stomach was already knotting with the familiar anxiety. He opened the refrigerator, knowing what he'd find but hoping anyway.
Empty.
The fluorescent light illuminated nothing but a half-empty bottle of soy sauce and a container of kimchi that had seen better days three weeks ago.
His jaw tightened.
"Oppa?" Haeun's voice was smaller now, concerned.
He forced his expression smooth before turning. "Don't worry about it. I'm heading out for work today. When you get back—" He met her eyes, injecting all the confidence he didn't feel into his voice. "When you get back, I'll have a real meal ready. Not instant noodles. Real food. You can eat to your heart's content, okay?"
Haeun's face lit up like sunrise. "Really? You promise?"
"Promise."
She practically bounced to the door, then paused, looking back. For just a moment, her expression shifted—something older, sadder, flickering across her features. "Oppa... be careful today, okay? In the Hollow."
Jiwoo managed a smile. "Always am."
It was the same lie he told every time.
Haeun left, her footsteps echoing down the dilapidated stairwell. Jiwoo stood in the doorway until he heard the building's main door close, then sagged against the frame.
What am I going to do?
His gaze drifted to the kitchen counter where his Descender blade rested—if you could call it that. The weapon was standard E-rank issue: a simple straight blade about two feet long, made from compressed Hollow-resistant alloy. The edge was chipped in three places. The handle's grip tape had peeled away months ago. He'd tried to repair it with electrical tape, but that was coming loose too.
It was the weapon of someone barely qualified to call themselves a Descender.
Just like him.
Jiwoo grabbed the blade, its familiar weight settling in his palm. I need to bring back money today. No matter what.
He left the apartment, locking the flimsy door behind him.
The streets of Sector 7 were already stirring with early morning activity. Mizun Chi City had been a coastal metropolitan area before the Peeling—two million people, gleaming high-rises, a thriving port economy. Now it was a fortress-city of barely eight hundred thousand, ringed by Hollow Barriers that glowed faintly purple against the perpetual gray sky.
The Peeling had changed the weather itself. True sunlight was rare now; the tears in reality scattered and filtered light in strange ways, leaving most days caught in a twilight dimness that played havoc with circadian rhythms.
Jiwoo walked past buildings that showed the scars of seven years of barely-managed survival. Cracked facades hastily reinforced with steel girders. Windows sealed with barrier-treated panels. Entire blocks that had been consumed by Hollows and never rebuilt, left as memorial zones where nothing grew and few dared to enter.
He passed a street market where vendors were setting up, their goods a mix of scavenged pre-Peeling luxuries and post-Peeling necessities. Hollow-resistant charms (mostly fake). Canned foods with expiration dates from before the world ended. Weapons for those desperate or foolish enough to think they could protect themselves without being a Descender.
The Descender Guild Hall for Sector 7 was a repurposed office building, its glass exterior replaced with reinforced barrier-stone. The lobby was already crowded with Descenders of various ranks checking mission boards, forming parties, trading equipment.
Jiwoo spotted him immediately.
Park Minho stood near the mission board, his D-rank badge gleaming on his chest. At 27, he cut an impressive figure—tall, athletic build maintained by regular Hollow dives, confident posture of someone who knew their worth. His equipment was well-maintained, his blade an upgraded model that probably cost more than Jiwoo made in six months.
Their eyes met. Minho's face split into a broad grin.
"Jiwoo-yah!" He waved enthusiastically, weaving through the crowd. "Man, you look exhausted. Rough night?"
Jiwoo managed a tired smile. "Something like that."
Minho clapped him on the shoulder with genuine warmth. "You work too hard, seriously. You're going to burn out at this rate." He studied Jiwoo's face more carefully, and his expression shifted to concern. "Have you eaten? You look thin."
"I'm fine, just—"
"Here." Minho was already pulling out his wallet, extracting several bills. He pressed them into Jiwoo's hand before he could protest. "Take this. Get yourself something proper to eat. And get something for Haeun too—growing kid needs nutrition."
Jiwoo stared at the money. It was too much. Way too much. At least 200,000 won—more than he'd make from two E-rank Hollow clears.
"Hyung, I can't accept this much—"
"Don't be ridiculous." Minho closed Jiwoo's fingers around the bills. "What are friends for? Besides, you'll pay me back eventually. No rush." His grin returned. "Consider it an advance on your future success. Once you rank up to D, you'll be making decent money. Just don't forget your hyung when you're famous, yeah?"
Jiwoo felt something tight and painful in his chest—gratitude mixed with shame. "I... thank you. Really. I'll pay you back as soon as I can."
"Ah, don't worry about it." Minho waved dismissively, then checked his watch. "Actually, I was going to talk to you about that. The mission tomorrow—you should rest up instead. You look dead on your feet."
"No, I need the—"
"Jiwoo-yah." Minho's tone was firm but kind. "I'm serious. Go home. Buy some food with that money. Get a proper night's sleep for once. The Hollow will still be there next week." He squeezed Jiwoo's shoulder. "Your sister needs you alive more than she needs one mission's worth of money. Trust me on this."
Jiwoo wanted to argue, but the weight of the bills in his hand was already speaking to him. With this, he could buy real groceries. Meat. Vegetables. Rice. He could keep his promise to Haeun.
"Okay," he heard himself say. "I'll rest today."
"Good man." Minho's smile was radiant. "Just make sure you're here early tomorrow morning, alright? Seven AM sharp. We've got a good team lined up for a C-class Hollow clear. If it goes well, you might even get enough contribution points for a rank evaluation."
Jiwoo's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Really. I've been putting in good words for you with the assessors." Minho winked. "Like I said, don't forget your hyung when you make it big."
They talked for a few more minutes before Minho excused himself to meet with his party. Jiwoo watched him go, feeling a complex swirl of emotions.
He's too good to me. What did I do to deserve a friend like that?
With the money secure in his pocket, Jiwoo left the Guild Hall and made his way to the market district. The vendors called out their wares in sing-song voices, competing for attention. He moved through the stalls with purpose, mentally calculating prices, stretching the money as far as it would go.
Pork belly. Eggs. Fresh vegetables—expensively grown in barrier-protected greenhouses, but worth it for Haeun. Rice. Actual fruit, a luxury they hadn't had in months.
By the time he finished shopping, both hands were full of bags, but his heart felt lighter than it had in weeks.
Thank you, Minho-hyung. I'll definitely pay you back.
The walk home took him through one of the memorial zones—a three-block area that had been completely consumed by a Hollow five years ago. Two hundred people had simply ceased to exist when the tear opened, their homes and belongings remaining behind like a photograph of life with all the people erased.
Jiwoo walked faster through this area. Everyone did. There was something wrong about the memorial zones, something that made your skin crawl and your breath catch. The air felt thinner here, like it was being slowly pulled away into an invisible drain.
"Mom... Dad..." The words slipped out before he could stop them. "Why... why were you taken? It's so hard without you."
His parents had died in the third year after the Peeling. Not in a Hollow, ironically. A building collapse during a barrier malfunction. Crushed under rubble while trying to get Haeun to safety. They'd succeeded—Haeun survived with barely a scratch. But Jiwoo, seventeen at the time, had suddenly found himself guardian to a seven-year-old sister in a world that was still ending.
Five years. It felt like fifty.
He pushed the memories down, focusing on the weight of the grocery bags. I can't afford to dwell. Not today. Today, I keep my promise.
Back in the apartment, Jiwoo laid out the groceries on the counter and got to work. Cooking was one of the few skills he'd managed to develop in the years since their parents died. He wasn't great, but he could manage simple, nutritious meals.
As he chopped vegetables, his mind wandered to Minho.
He gave me so much money...
Jiwoo paused mid-chop, frowning.
Minho was D-rank. Respectable, but not exceptional. D-ranks made decent money—enough to live comfortably, save a bit, support a small family. But they didn't make this kind of money. Not the amount Minho had just casually handed over.
And there was another thing...
He's exceptionally good. Why hasn't he accepted the rank-up evaluation?
Minho had been D-rank for almost two years now. In that time, Jiwoo had seen him fight. The man was skilled—precise, powerful, efficient. He could probably clear C-rank Hollows solo if he tried. Most Descenders in his position would be chomping at the bit for a rank evaluation, eager for the prestige and pay increase that came with C-rank status.
But whenever it was mentioned, Minho always deflected with a joke or a modest excuse.
And D-ranks definitely don't get paid enough to be this generous...
Jiwoo's hands stilled over the cutting board.
How did he get this much money?
A dozen possibilities flitted through his mind, none of them good. Black market Hollow essence trading. Unofficial clears that weren't reported to the Guild. Deals with the criminal syndicates that had flourished in the post-Peeling chaos.
He shook his head sharply, resuming his chopping with more force than necessary.
Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, he told himself firmly. Or however that saying goes.
Minho was his friend. One of the few people who'd shown him genuine kindness in the five years since he'd become a Descender. Whatever the source of the money, Minho's intentions were good. That's what mattered.
Right?
By the time Haeun returned home at 4:30 PM, the apartment smelled like heaven. Jiwoo had prepared dwaejigogi-bokkeum—stir-fried pork with vegetables—alongside perfectly steamed rice and a fresh cucumber kimchi he'd thrown together.
Haeun's eyes went wide as she stepped through the door, her backpack sliding off her shoulder.
"Oppa... you actually..."
"I promised, didn't I?" Jiwoo gestured to the table, which he'd set with their best (least chipped) bowls. "Come on, eat before it gets cold."
She didn't need to be told twice.
Watching Haeun eat—really eat, not just picking at instant noodles or rationing bites to make food last longer—filled Jiwoo with a warmth that momentarily pushed back the constant anxiety. This is what mattered. Moments like this. Her happiness. Her health. Her future.
Everything else was just noise.
"Oppa, this is so good!" Haeun mumbled around a mouthful of pork, her table manners forgotten in her enthusiasm. "You're getting really good at cooking!"
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Jiwoo chided, but he was smiling.
They ate together as the gray light outside faded to evening darkness, and for just a little while, the world felt almost normal.
Several kilometers away — Mizun Chi City Descender Council Headquarters
The council chamber was a stark, utilitarian space built in the early days after the Peeling when resources were scarce and function trumped form. Reinforced barrier-stone walls. No windows. Fluorescent lighting that cast everything in harsh, unflattering whites.
At the central table sat seven figures—the Sector Chairmen who oversaw Mizun Chi City's Descender operations.
Standing before them, radiating barely-contained impatience, was Kang Yohan.
At twenty-one, he was one of only three S-rank Descenders in the entire city. Flame-red hair, styled deliberately to stand out. Sharp features that would have been handsome if not perpetually set in an expression of irritation. He wore his S-rank badge like a crown, pinned prominently on his custom-fitted combat jacket.
"Our efforts are growing rapidly," Yohan said, his tone walking the line between respectful and insubordinate. "Though the Hollows are still strong, we need to completely eradicate them from Sector 4 before they destabilize the barrier network."
The elderly man at the head of the table—Chairman Go, seventy-three years old, face like weathered stone—steepled his fingers.
"That's what we're asking you to do, Kang Yohan."
Yohan's jaw tightened. "With respect, Chairman, I can't work miracles without sufficient resources. The Hollows in Sector 4 are multiplying faster than we can clear them. I've done my best—personally eliminated over two thousand manifestations in the last month—but I'm limited by—"
"No more excuses." Chairman Go's voice was quiet, but it cut through Yohan's words like a blade. "You are one of the few truly strong Descenders humanity has left. We expect more from you."
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.
You're S-rank. You're supposed to be superhuman. So why are you failing?
Yohan felt heat rising in his chest—literal heat, his Hollow-derived abilities responding to his anger, the air around him starting to shimmer. He forced it down through sheer will.
"I'll do..." He exhaled slowly. "...my best, I guess."
"See that you do." Chairman Go's expression didn't change. "Dismissed."
Yohan turned on his heel and left, his footsteps echoing in the sterile hallway outside. Once the door sealed behind him, he slammed his fist into the barrier-stone wall. It cracked slightly—testament to S-rank strength.
Ungrateful bastards, he thought venomously. I kill thousands of those things and they want more. Always more.
But even in his anger, he knew the truth.
It wasn't enough.
It would never be enough.
The Hollows were growing faster than they could be cleared. The Peeling was accelerating. And there were only so many S-ranks in the world.
Humanity was losing.
Slowly. Inexorably.
They just didn't want to admit it yet.
Sector 4 Industrial Zone — Abandoned Factory District
The Hollow opened like a wound in reality, its edges flickering with sickly purple light. It was a D-class tear, relatively minor, tucked away in an area that had been evacuated years ago.
Which made it perfect for what Park Minho needed.
He stood before the entrance, checking his equipment one final time. Behind him, three other Descenders shuffled nervously—all E-ranks, recruited from the desperate pools of low-level contractors who took any job that paid.
"Alright, listen up," Minho said, his voice carrying the easy confidence of a veteran. "This is a simple harvest run. We go in, collect essence crystals from any manifestations we encounter, and get out. Standard D-class clear. Everyone stays together, no one wanders off, and we'll all be having drinks by sunset. Questions?"
One of the E-ranks raised a hand hesitantly. "Um, sir? I thought harvesting essence crystals was illegal without Guild authorization?"
Minho's smile didn't waver. "That's a common misconception. We're authorized under Subsection 7-B of the Emergency Resource Allocation Act. It's all above board." The lie came smoothly. "The Guild just doesn't advertise it because they don't want amateurs trying it."
The E-ranks exchanged glances but nodded. They needed the money too badly to question further.
Sheep, Minho thought without malice. But useful sheep.
They entered the Hollow.
The transition was instantaneous and nauseating—reality folding inside-out, the laws of physics briefly negotiable. Then they were inside.
The Hollow's interior resembled the factory district, but wrong. Walls bent at angles that hurt to look at. Machinery that had rusted decades ago moved with grinding purpose, assembling nothing from nothing. The air tasted of copper and old fear.
"Stay close," Minho ordered, drawing his blade.
They moved through the distorted space, encountering minor manifestations—formless things of shadow and static that dissolved under coordinated strikes. Each one left behind a small crystalline structure, glowing faintly with captured Hollow essence.
Essence crystals were valuable on the black market. Very valuable. They could be refined into enhancement drugs, sold to underground researchers, even used in illegal barrier maintenance by districts that couldn't afford official Guild services.
Minho had been running these operations for eight months now. It was dangerous—if the Guild discovered his unauthorized harvesting, he'd lose his Descender license at minimum, face criminal charges at worst.
But the money...
The money was too good to pass up.
Over the next hour, they harvested seventeen crystals. Enough to net Minho nearly three million won after paying off the E-ranks and his fence.
"Alright, that's enough," he announced. "Let's head back to the exit."
They'd made it halfway back when one of the E-ranks stumbled, crying out in pain. Minho turned to see the man's leg sinking into the floor—the Hollow's structure was destabilizing, reality growing fluid.
"Help me! Please!" The man scrabbled at the solid ground, but it was like quicksand, pulling him down.
The other two E-ranks moved to help. Minho calculated rapidly.
A rescue would take time. Time meant exposure to whatever was causing the destabilization. It meant risk.
And risk meant potential loss of his harvest.
His hand moved to the exit seal device on his belt—a Guild-issue emergency escape tool that could force open a temporary exit from any Hollow. They were expensive, closely monitored, meant only for life-or-death situations.
He'd reported his as "lost" two months ago. The replacement had cost him a favor to a corrupt quartermaster.
I'm trying to make a living, he thought, and felt the familiar numbness settle over his conscience. The world is tainted anyway. At least I'm helping where I can.
Minho pressed the activation stud.
Reality split, a glowing doorway appearing directly in front of him—and only him. Personal exit. One-way.
"Minho-ssi?" One of the E-ranks looked up, still trying to pull their companion free. "What are you—"
"I'm sorry," Minho said, and meant it in a distant, abstract way. "But you need to stay here. Just... try to stay alive as long as you can. It'll stabilize eventually. Probably."
"Wait, you can't—"
Minho stepped through the exit.
It sealed behind him instantly.
He emerged in the real-world factory district, the sounds of the Hollow cut off like a door slamming shut. For a moment, he stood there, listening to his own breathing, feeling the weight of the essence crystals in his pack.
From inside the Hollow—muffled, distant, but still audible—came screaming.
Minho closed his eyes briefly, then started walking.
They knew the risks. Everyone knows the risks.
By the time he reached his car, the screaming had stopped.
He pulled out his phone and dialed his fence.
"Yeah, it's me. I've got seventeen crystals. Top quality. When can we meet?"
As he drove away from the industrial zone, Minho allowed himself to think about Jiwoo. Good kid. Naive. Trusting.
Should I bring him on one of these runs? He needs money desperately...
No. Too risky. Jiwoo was too honest. He'd question things, might even report it.
Better to just help him the normal way. Slip him money occasionally. Play the generous friend.
It kept Minho's conscience quieter that way.
And in a world like this, you had to protect your peace of mind however you could.
[END CHAPTER 1]