Chapter 9: The Child of Prophecy
The void hung silent around them, thick as ink. Even the golden threads that had once danced around Shiro's body now trembled faintly, as though sensing the weight of what was about to unfold.Hamiel hovered above him, wings folded like paper blades pressed tight against his back. His pale eyes glimmered with a strange, almost clinical serenity. Yet beneath that calm, a faint pulse of something unspoken lingered — a shadow of emotion he did not allow himself to display.
"Shiro," Hamiel began, his voice low, carrying the weight of inevitability, "there is something you must know. Something… that defines why you are here."
Shiro's silver eye, still glowing faintly from the awakening, narrowed. "I'm listening," he said. Exhaustion rasped through his throat, but he forced himself upright. His body throbbed from the recent battle, every scar, every broken limb still screaming, yet the pain was nothing compared to the dread curling in his chest.
Hamiel's fingers moved with delicate precision, threads of gold curling like smoke. With a soft motion, he summoned a tome that hovered between them. Its leather cover glimmered faintly, etched with runes that shifted like liquid fire, pulsating with an almost living awareness.
"This," Hamiel said, voice steady yet heavy, "is the Book of Prophecy. It speaks of a human child from another world… a child who would endure suffering that no ordinary soul should bear. You."
Shiro's breath caught. "Go on," he whispered, though his voice sounded more like a plea than a demand.
Hamiel opened the tome. Its pages glowed softly, runes crawling across the surface like writhing threads of light. He began to read:
"A human child, born into another world, shall be pulled into this realm of threads and binds. He shall endure trials unnatural to his world, drawn by the insatiable hunger of the God of Death. Grief, rage, despair… every negative emotion shall feed the god's power. And yet, within this child lies the key to choice: he may defy the God of Death and carve a new path, or succumb and serve as the instrument of destruction for all worlds. When the child awakens a power outside the natural threads of life, the reckoning will come."
Shiro's fists clenched until his knuckles cracked. "So… every scar, every nightmare… all of it… just because some god is greedy?" His voice broke, anger and disbelief roiling in equal measure. "How is that fair?"
Hamiel's gaze did not waver. "The universe is rarely fair," he said. "But fairness is not the point. Survival… choice… these are what matter. And you, Shiro, have been chosen to bear the weight of that choice."
Shiro's legs trembled. His mind, still raw from the battle, began to fray. "Chosen? You mean… trapped! Every memory I lost, every piece of myself… it wasn't random. It was… engineered." He swung his arms in frustration, nearly toppling the Codex at his feet. "I don't even know who I am anymore!"
For the first time, Hamiel's wings shifted slightly, a faint fluttering that betrayed an almost imperceptible hesitation. "You are still you," he said, voice gentler, though he quickly hardened it again. "The threads of your soul have been stretched and tested, yes. But you have endured. That endurance… is proof that you are more than a puppet of fate."
Shiro shook his head, tears blurring the silver of his eye. "I'm… I'm tired, Hamiel. Tired of fighting ghosts, tired of fighting myself… of fighting for things I don't even understand."
Hamiel's hand drifted toward Shiro's shoulder. Warmth seeped from his touch, subtle but insistent, a stark contrast to the stoic figure he always presented. Golden threads quivered at the contact, and Shiro's mind flinched. He glimpsed a memory fragment, brief and fleeting: a soft-lit room, laughter echoing off wooden floors, the smell of miso soup on a winter night, a hand brushing against his own… Then it shattered, gone before it could take root.
"You are not alone," Hamiel said softly. "Even if you cannot see it yet. You carry more than you realize, and in time, you will understand why your thread is different."
Shiro's voice cracked as he swallowed against the lump in his throat. "Why… why show me this now? Why tell me I'm special only after everything I've suffered?"
Hamiel's golden threads wrapped around the Codex, lifting it slightly as though it were a tether to destiny itself. "Because the truth cannot be hidden forever. The awakening must be understood, and the child must know the gravity of his existence before stepping fully onto the loom. You are not simply a fighter, Shiro. You are a threadbearer, a weaver of fate. And all threads, no matter how broken, may still be mended — or severed."
Shiro's hands shook violently, gripping his knees as his mind reeled. "And what do I do? How do I fight a god who feeds on grief? How do I survive the weight of… all of this?"
Hamiel exhaled slowly, letting the question hang in the void. "I do not know. No one can teach you how to defy a god. You must discover your own path… your own thread. But know this: you have already proven yourself worthy of walking it."
Shiro's gaze dropped. The Codex rested at his feet, glowing faintly. Every symbol, every word felt alive, yet the weight of comprehension pressed down on him like stone. He wanted answers, guidance… a hand to steady him. But there was only Hamiel, calm, unmoving, a pillar of light and shadow.
Then Hamiel's hand rested on Shiro's shoulder. Warmth, not cold detachment. Threads of gold pulsed at the touch. Another memory fragment pierced the haze of his mind — brief, fleeting, impossible to hold: the faint curve of a smile, the weight of callused fingers against his own, a lullaby whispered under the night sky. His heart clenched. He opened his mouth, but no sound came.
"I…" Shiro whispered, voice raw, broken. "Who… who are you, really?"
Hamiel's lips curved into a faint, sorrowful smile. "I am… someone who has watched over you more than you realize. Someone who is proud of you… even if I cannot interfere. I can only hope that you surpass what I could have been."
The threads around them began to fade, unraveling slowly. Hamiel's wings folded tight, shadows drawing inward. His gaze lingered on Shiro, and for a heartbeat, he seemed more human than the stoic observer he had always been.
Then, softly, the words fell:
"I'm proud of you… son."
The syllable struck Shiro like a lightning bolt. He sank to his knees, the Codex slipping from his grasp. "Dad…?" His voice was a hoarse, wet whisper, breaking under the weight of sudden revelation and grief. "Don't… don't leave me!"
Hamiel's figure thinned, golden threads dissipating into the void. His form disappeared, leaving only the echo of warmth and the faint pulse of light against Shiro's shoulder — a final tether to something lost and yet undeniably his.
"Be better than we were," came the final, distant words.
Shiro remained kneeling, shaking, tears mingling with the blood still trickling from his battle wounds. The prophecy, the god, the threads of fate — all now had faces, names, and voices. Somewhere deep inside, a spark of determination ignited. One day, he would forge his own path. One day, he would challenge fate itself.
The golden threads that lingered flickered once, then faded, leaving Shiro alone with the Codex and the weight of destiny pressing down like a living thing.
He closed his eyes, trying to breathe past the storm of emotion. Pain, grief, rage — all became fuel for the soul, threads waiting to be woven. And in that darkness, Shiro's resolve hardened.
One day… he would rewrite the loom.