The last thing I remembered was darkness—an abyss unyielding and absolute. It was not the comforting kind that cradled dreams, but a blackness so unforgiving that even the faintest beam of light dared not trespass. I floated there, weightless, for days—or perhaps weeks. Time had no meaning in that void.
I tried to remember who I was before, searching for fragments of identity or purpose. Yet, nothing came. My thoughts were slippery, like shadows retreating before the light of recognition. It felt as though my existence had always been confined to this endless expanse, drifting without beginning or end.
Hope dwindled, flickering once before fading entirely. I surrendered to the void, allowing it to envelop me as I closed my eyes. No thoughts. No memories. Just the quiet resignation of a prisoner bound to an unseen captor.
And then, the nothingness ended.
I opened my eyes to a world that seared my senses. The cold hit first—a biting, stinging chill that clung to my skin. My body lay sprawled against a white, soft, and unforgiving surface. Snow. Around me, hills rose like jagged specters, their silence broken only by the whisper of wind.
For a moment, I simply lay there, staring at the pale expanse, my mind sluggish and uncomprehending. The void had released me, but it had left no answers in its wake. Who was I? Why was I here?
The only certainty was the cold. And it was enough to force me to move.
The cold gnawed at me, relentless and unforgiving. I struggled to my feet, my limbs stiff and sluggish, as if they had forgotten the art of motion. Snow clung to my body like a burial shroud, its weight insignificant but its chill cutting to the bone. Around me, the world stretched wide and empty, an endless expanse of white broken only by the distant silhouette of barren hills.
Each step was a battle. The snow dragged at my legs, and the icy wind tore through me like ghostly claws. My mind, still clouded by the remnants of the void, offered no guidance. I was a hollow vessel, filled with nothing but the primal will to survive.
Time lost its meaning as I trudged onward. The wind howled louder, carrying with it whispers I couldn't quite make out. My breath came in sharp, visible bursts, and my vision blurred as exhaustion claimed its toll. Then, on the edge of the horizon, I spotted something—a faint plume of smoke curling upward into the pale sky.
Hope flickered to life, fragile and fleeting. Smoke meant fire. Fire meant warmth. Perhaps even life.
With renewed determination, I stumbled toward the source. The closer I got, the more distinct it became. A campfire crackled at the base of a rocky outcrop, its light a beacon in the desolation. Beside it stood a figure draped in thick furs, their face hidden beneath a hood. They held a staff in one hand, its tip faintly glowing.
Relief flooded me, but as I stepped closer, the figure turned sharply toward me. Their stance shifted, tense and wary, and a voice rang out over the wind.
"Stay back, creature! I'll not be fooled by your tricks!"
I stopped, confused. My voice was hoarse, unfamiliar even to me. "Please... I mean no harm."
The figure's staff flared brighter, the glow illuminating their face. An older man, his weathered skin marked by years of hardship, and his eyes sharp and filled with suspicion. "You think me blind? You wear a human shape, but I see the truth. No man emerges from the cursed snow alive. Begone, demon, before I smite you where you stand!"
Demon? The accusation struck like a blow, but I had no chance to protest. The old man raised his staff high, and a searing burst of fire erupted from its tip, hurtling toward me with terrifying speed.
Instinct took over. My legs refused to move, frozen by fear and exhaustion. The fireball struck the ground near my feet, exploding in a shower of heat and light. The force threw me backward, and I landed hard against the icy earth.
Pain lanced through me, sharp and immediate. The heat from the fire singed my skin, a cruel contrast to the biting cold. My vision swam, and the world tilted violently. I tried to speak, to plead for mercy, but my voice failed me.
The last thing I saw was the old man approaching, his staff still glowing, his expression unreadable. Then darkness claimed me once more.
Darkness greeted me again, but this time, it was different. It wasn't the void I had floated in before. This darkness felt alive, pulsing with energy, as if it were a fabric stitched with threads unseen. I tried to move, but my body remained still, bound by an invisible force.
Then, I saw him.
A colossal figure emerged from the void, his presence so overwhelming that it seemed to stretch across the endless expanse. He was not flesh and blood but something far stranger. His entire being was woven from countless glowing strings, each one shimmering in shades of gold, silver, and crimson. They danced and twisted, forming a vaguely humanoid shape. His eyes, if they could be called that, were twin orbs of blinding light.
I stared, frozen in awe and terror.
"Who... who are you?" I managed to whisper. My voice echoed strangely, as if the darkness itself carried my words.
The being leaned closer, his massive form bending down to meet my gaze. When he spoke, his voice resonated with the weight of countless worlds, a harmony of whispers and roars.
"I am called Maelyrith, Weaver of Realms, Keeper of Threads. I am the one who binds the Ethereal Strings that shape all existence."
The name struck a chord deep within me, stirring memories I couldn't quite grasp. Before I could respond, Maelyrith continued.
"You, Suiyi, are an anomaly. A thread severed from its weave, yet now returned. Do you remember your purpose?"
I shook my head, confusion and fear coursing through me. "I don't even remember who I am. How could I have a purpose?"
Maelyrith tilted his head, the strings that made up his form shifting like waves. "Then let me show you."
One of his immense hands, woven from strands of light and shadow, reached toward me. A single finger—if it could be called that—touched my forehead.
Suddenly, my mind was flooded with images. A cascade of lives, each one more vivid than the last. I saw myself as a warrior, standing atop a battlefield drenched in blood. As a scholar, pouring over ancient tomes in a candlelit library. As a craftsman, shaping steel into blades of unparalleled beauty. Each life felt as real as the one I was living now, their memories crashing over me like a tidal wave.
I gasped, clutching my head as the torrent subsided. "What... what is this?"
"Your past lives," Maelyrith said. "You are a thread that has been woven into the tapestry of existence countless times. Each life left its mark upon you, shaping the essence of who you are. Now, you must remember."
"But why?" I asked, still reeling. "Why show me this?"
"Because your fate is tied to the balance of the Ethereal Strings," Maelyrith replied. "A great disruption is upon us, one that threatens to unravel the weave of this world. You have been chosen, not by chance, but by necessity."
His hand moved again, this time resting gently on my forehead. A warmth spread through me, not unlike the heat of the fireball that had struck me earlier, but this was soothing, not searing.
"I give you a gift," Maelyrith said. "The Sight to perceive the Strings that bind all things. With it, you will see the world for what it truly is. And I grant you a guide—an echo of my will—to aid you on your journey."
The warmth intensified, and my vision filled with light. When it cleared, I was no longer in the void.
---
I woke to the sound of crackling flames. My body ached, and the scent of charred wood filled my nose. Opening my eyes, I found myself lying near a small campfire. The old man who had attacked me—Barro, I recalled his name from fragmented memories—sat nearby, his staff resting across his lap.
"You're awake," he said gruffly, his eyes narrowing. "And you're still alive. That's more than I expected."
I sat up slowly, my head spinning. "You tried to kill me."
"I thought you were a demon," Barro replied, his tone unapologetic. "No one survives the snowfields around Ghairos, not unless they've made a pact with something unholy."
"And now?" I asked, my voice cold. "What do you think I am?"
Barro leaned closer, scrutinizing me. "You're not a demon, that much is clear. But you're not normal either. Something about you... feels wrong."
I wanted to argue, to insist that I was just a man, but the truth was, I didn't know what I was anymore. The memories Maelyrith had shown me, the power I felt lingering just beneath my skin—it all pointed to something far beyond ordinary.
As I stood, the world around me seemed to shift. Threads of light and shadow appeared, stretching from every object, every living thing. The campfire was a swirling nexus of fiery strings, and even Barro had faint lines of light emanating from him, connecting him to something unseen.
"What... is this?" I murmured, staring in wonder.
Barro frowned. "What are you babbling about?"
I realized he couldn't see the threads. Only I could. Maelyrith's gift, the Sight, was mine alone to wield.
"Nothing," I said quickly, shaking my head. "Thank you for saving me."
Barro grunted. "Don't thank me yet. If you plan to survive out here, you'll need more than luck and pretty words. The snowfields are unforgiving, and the ruins of Ghairos are even worse."
"Ghairos?" The name was unfamiliar, yet it sparked something deep within me.
"The city just beyond the hills," Barro explained. "It's been abandoned for years, ever since the Demon King's curse. A dangerous place, filled with echoes of his power."
A chill ran down my spine, and I instinctively glanced at the threads around me. The mention of the Demon King made them vibrate faintly, as if in warning.
"What happened there?" I asked, my curiosity piqued despite the danger.
Barro hesitated. "A story for another time. If you're going to Ghairos, you'll need rest and strength. Eat something and sleep. We'll talk in the morning."
I nodded, though sleep was the last thing on my mind.