Darkness. Then—pain.
Ren gasped, his body convulsing as raw energy pulsed beneath his skin. The thread shimmered before him, a silver strand stretching into the void, vibrating like a plucked string. He hadn't meant to touch it. He had barely brushed against its surface, yet the world around him twisted.
The village bonfire dimmed. The air cracked like glass.
Then—the bandit screamed.
Ren's eyes widened as the man staggered, his form distorting. Threads—golden and fraying—peeled from his body, unraveling him from existence. One moment, he was there. The next—he was dust, scattered in the wind.
Silence.
Ren's heart pounded. What just happened?
Around the fire, the other bandits stood frozen, their eyes locked on the empty space where their companion had been.
Then came the shouting.
"What the hell was that?!" one of them roared, stumbling back.
A woman reached for her sword, her face pale. "Magic—that wasn't normal magic!"
Ren took a step back. His veins still burned from whatever he had done, the power humming beneath his skin. I need to run.
The first bandit snapped out of his daze and pointed. "It was him! The boy!"
Ren turned—and bolted.
Behind him, the remaining bandits surged forward, their yells splitting the night. The forest loomed ahead, shadows twisting between the trees. Ren's lungs burned as he pushed himself forward, but his mind was spinning.
That wasn't just magic.
He had pulled something. Unraveled something.
And now they were going to kill him for it.
Ren tore through the underbrush, twigs snapping beneath his feet. Branches lashed at his arms, but he didn't slow down. He could still hear them behind him—voices cursing, blades scraping against leather scabbards.
"Find him!"
"He killed Luth! I want his head!"
His chest heaved. He wasn't fast enough. They would catch him. And if they did—
No. He couldn't think like that.
Up ahead, the forest split into two paths. To the right—a clearing, too open. To the left—thicker trees, harder to move through, but easier to hide.
Ren veered left.
The ground sloped downward. He lost his footing—his ankle twisted, and he crashed into the dirt. Pain shot up his leg.
No, no, not now—
He scrambled forward, dragging himself behind a fallen log just as the bandits entered the clearing behind him.
"There!" One of them pointed at the disturbed underbrush. "He went left!"
Ren held his breath.
The bandits ran past, their boots pounding against the earth.
Silence.
He waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. The sound of their pursuit faded.
I need to keep moving.
His leg throbbed as he stood, but he gritted his teeth and pushed forward.
Just get back to the village.
He took a step—and the world tilted.
The trees warped. The ground rippled. Threads—thin and silver—spun across his vision, drifting through the air like strands of silk.
Then, a voice.
"Pull."
It wasn't his own.
Ren stiffened. The whisper had come from everywhere and nowhere at once. A presence unseen. A command unspoken.
"Pull."
His fingers trembled as he reached out. A single thread hovered before him, glimmering.
He didn't know why, but he knew—this was different. This wasn't like before.
He swallowed hard, then—
He pulled.
It was like grabbing a live wire.
A shock ripped through his body. The trees bent backward. The air groaned under the weight of something unseen.
And then—
The world shifted.
Ren staggered, his head spinning. The night sky flickered—for a moment, he wasn't standing in the forest anymore, but somewhere else. A vast expanse of golden strands stretched in every direction, infinite and pulsing.
Then, just as quickly, he was back.
The pain in his skull was unbearable. Blood dripped from his nose.
The voice whispered again.
"You were not meant to see this."
Ren's vision blurred. The darkness swallowed him whole.
He woke to the sound of crackling flames.
Ren groaned, his limbs stiff. His surroundings swam into focus—the scent of herbs and burnt wood filled the air. He wasn't in the forest anymore.
Someone had moved him.
He turned his head. A figure sat by the fire, watching him. An old man, robed in dark fabric, eyes glinting like distant stars.
"You're awake," the man said. His voice was calm, measured. "Good. That means you're not dead yet."
Ren blinked. His body still felt like it had been turned inside out. "W-where—?"
"In my home." The man gestured around the small wooden hut. "You were unconscious in the forest. Consider yourself lucky I found you before something else did."
Ren pushed himself up, wincing. The memory of the silver threads, the unraveling, the voice that spoke to him—it all came rushing back.
"What… what happened to me?"
The old man's gaze was unreadable.
"You touched something that was never meant to be touched."
Silence stretched between them.
Ren swallowed. "And the bandits…?"
"Gone," the man said. "But that's not your real problem, is it?"
Ren looked down at his hands. The sensation was still there, faint, but lingering—like his fingers were brushing against something unseen.
No. The bandits weren't the real problem.
The real problem was what he had just become.