The morning mist still clung to the terraced paddies when Ikenna heard the first knock. Not on the farmhouse door, but on the air itself—a soft, rhythmic hum that vibrated through the qi currents like a flute played in a distant cave.
He stiffened mid-harvest, hands still cradling a bundle of ripened Spirit Rice.
Behind him, Amara paused with her basket. "You felt that too?"
"Yes." Ikenna straightened slowly. "Someone's weaving through the land's breath. An intruder, but… not hostile."
Jalun emerged from the barn, his robe askew. "I thought I heard music."
Ikenna scanned the edges of the property. Nothing yet. But the farmland was no longer blind. Since awakening the Core Root, he could feel when someone touched the earth that belonged to him.
This was no ordinary cultivator.
They were approaching barefoot, letting their soles drink the qi from every leaf and stone. Every step was deliberate—measured like the weaving of silk threads.
Then she appeared.
A woman in a cloak of raw spider silk, its weave embroidered with living moss and ash-gray feathers. Her hood was drawn low, obscuring her features save for a sliver of a mouth that curled upward in the smallest smirk.
She moved like drifting fog—unhurried, unconcerned—and stopped just outside the threshold of the Soulbound Field.
"I greet the Keeper of the Green Heart," she said, voice soft but resonating in the marrow. "Permission to enter?"
Ikenna hesitated. He didn't know this woman, but the land whispered no malice. Only sadness… and a quiet urgency.
"You may step forward," he said.
The woman stepped onto the glowing root-veins of the bound territory. They responded instantly, pulsing brighter, but not rejecting her.
She bowed. "My name is Nwachi. First Thread of the Hidden Weavers Sect."
Ikenna frowned. The name was only half-familiar. The Hidden Weavers were a forgotten sect, said to have vanished centuries ago after the Great Soil War. But they were masters of spiritual textile cultivation—the rare art of binding qi into weaves of silk, bark, and thread, turning clothing into living tools or memory-sealed maps.
"What brings you to my farm, First Thread?"
Nwachi raised her hood, revealing a sharp, elegant face and eyes that glimmered with pale lavender light. "The wyrm beneath your land is not a beast. It is a curse, older than your bloodline, and bred in famine."
Silence fell like snow.
"What do you mean?" Amara asked, voice tight.
Nwachi turned to her gently. "You think it's a monster that tunnels, eats, and sleeps. It's not. It was grown—spun by a forbidden loom in the heart of the Ashen Plateau. Its body is made of threaded hunger. Its breath dries wells. Its touch cracks seeds. It devours harvests not for food, but for revenge."
Ikenna stepped closer. "Then why is it here? What does it want from me?"
"You woke the Core Root," Nwachi said. "The land you now guard was once the prison where the wyrm's heart was buried. It was locked away with thread runes—my sect's final act before we vanished."
She reached into her cloak and withdrew a folded cloth. It unfurled itself in the air, revealing a map made of silk, threaded with moving green and black lines.
"This is your farm," she said, pointing to a central knot. "And these—" she gestured to the spreading black streaks "—are the wyrm's root-spikes. Its influence is returning."
Ikenna studied the map. The black lines were creeping toward the fields like veins of rot.
"How do we stop it?"
Nwachi hesitated. "You can't—not yet. But you can delay it. We must strengthen the land's memory, weaving new patterns over old wounds."
She turned and walked toward a patch of tilled but unused soil near the barn. She knelt, cut her palm, and let her blood drip into the ground.
The roots beneath the soil pulsed. Ikenna felt the field respond—questioning, testing… then allowing.
She stood and smiled faintly. "I'll teach you the Weaving Rite."
"A rite?" Jalun asked, blinking. "You mean like… sewing?"
"Not quite." Nwachi removed a thin, curved needle made of white bone from her sash. "You'll stitch with memory and qi, binding intention into earth. The soil will remember the shape of peace. That's the only way to hold back the wyrm's rise."
Amara looked uneasy. "And if we fail?"
Nwachi's smile faded. "Then this land becomes the wyrm's shell. And all nearby farms will rot from the root up."
They began at dusk.
The three of them stood around the patch Nwachi had chosen, while she drew a diagram into the soil—concentric circles of runes linked by vines of fine silk. Each rune pulsed faintly, like the breath of a sleeping creature.
"The soil accepts intent," Nwachi explained. "But you must offer part of yourself. A memory. A vow. A piece of truth."
Ikenna stepped forward first. He pricked his finger, touched the central rune, and whispered: "I vow to feed those who cannot feed themselves. I will not repeat the mistakes of my past life."
The rune flared.
Amara followed. "I vow to protect this farm even if I must bleed for it."
Jalun gulped, then stepped up. "I—I vow to stop being afraid of dirt… and snakes."
The soil rippled in approval.
The silk threads pulled taut, and a pulse of light flowed outward. The runes shimmered into the ground and vanished, absorbed into the memory of the earth.
Ikenna felt it immediately—the soil had changed again. It had gained shape. A sense of direction. The wyrm would struggle to bend it now.
Nwachi gave a small nod. "The first thread is woven. We'll need many more."
Ikenna exhaled and looked out across the farmland. "Then we start tomorrow."