The laughter wasn’t just an echo—it was a blade, slicing through the sky, shredding the fragile calm they had only just begun to reclaim. It was familiar, not because of fond memories—but because of a wound that never healed.Kael.Darren gripped his sword with trembling hands. “I saw him fall apart. His body... disintegrated.”Maeve shook her head slowly, her eyes fixed on the rift in the sky—now opening like the mouth of a great beast, ready to devour the world. “Not his body. Just the shell. The real Kael... may have never truly appeared.”Seraphina rose to her feet, steady but solemn. “Whatever remains… it’s not the Kael we once knew.”And from that rift—from the torn seam in reality yet to close—descended a figure. No longer the man who once fought beside them.Kael drifted down slowly, cloaked not in fabric, but in memories they had long discarded. His robe flickered—showing flashes of Lyra weeping on the battlefield, Maeve collapsing in her first training session, Darren standi

Blood rain poured from the sky like crimson sheets of paper, and amid the downpour, two figures stood atop a bridge of light—Kael, with his serene smile, and Eira, Lyra’s sister who was supposed to have died on the battlefield years ago.But it wasn't her death that froze Lyra in place.It was the cloak Eira wore.The Cloak of the Grand Weaver.Not just any ordinary weaver. This was a garment worn only by one who held the core of reality—and could reweave it from the beginning.And Eira… looked at Lyra like she was a stranger.Darren murmured, “That’s not her. That’s not the Eira we knew.”But Lyra didn’t answer.Her eyes didn’t blink. Her hands trembled.“Eira… you’re alive?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the roar of thunder and the cracking sky.Eira stepped forward.Her footsteps made no echo, as if time itself parted for each of her strides.And when she stopped, Eira lifted her face and pulled back her hood. Her silver hair cascaded freely, her blue eyes glowing wi

The sky faded into a dull gray.Reality began to roll back like an old sheet of paper blown by the wind—colors, sounds, and shapes dissolving into a single white thread, stripped of meaning. The world was being rewoven by Eira, now standing as the wielder of the Primordial Needle.And Lyra… had only one chance to stop her.But as she tried to summon her thread, to form the eighth knot, her hands trembled violently. The thread refused to appear. Her eyes welled with tears. Her voice caught in her throat.Darren stood beside her. “You can do this. You’ve created seven knots already. Just one more—you only need to believe.”Lyra shook her head weakly. “It’s not about belief. It’s about letting go. And I…”She looked at Darren—into the eyes that had stood beside her through every wound and every battle.“…I’m not ready.”Seraphina and Maeve were fighting on the front lines, tearing through the white threads beginning to ensnare the battlefield. Their faces were weary, but their spirits bu

A blast of light consumed the horizon. Two forces clashed in the sky like twin universes unwilling to share space. In the center, Lyra stood tall, a rainbow thread glowing from her chest, weaving the Ninth Knot—a knot unwritten in legends, never taught by any Weaver.Across from her, the primordial being that existed before all form and color—the First Weaver—tensed. Its body wavered, and the threads of reality that composed it began to unravel.The world fell silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.The Ninth Knot was not merely a thread.It was meaning.It was an acknowledgment of every wound, every chaos, every love left unfinished.It was a thread that didn’t try to heal the world, but embraced it.Seraphina dropped to her knees, blood trickling from the corner of her lips. Darren held up Maeve, unconscious from the earlier battle. Eira stood frozen, her hands trembling, watching the sister she once thought weak… now standing against the First Creator.“Lyra… what are you

The footsteps were faint, like dust whispering over stone floors.But the boy heard them. He knew—they were coming.The fragments of shadow he had summoned began to tremble, some fading, others writhing in panic.They recognized the presence of a force even time could not touch.The Old Guardians had arrived.Among the ruins, the first figure emerged.Tall, draped in a black cloak that seemed woven from shards of the night.His face was hidden behind a mask layered with translucent threads that were always in motion—as if his face was being re-stitched every second.The second figure appeared beside him.Smaller, thin like bone and steel, but his shadow stretched longer than his body.The third… never appeared physically.Only as a voice that slipped directly into the boy’s mind:“Threadbearer… you were never meant to exist.”The boy did not flinch.He stood, touching the thread still trailing from his staff into the blank book before him.The thread pulsed, as if it knew—its time had