"Everything that exists carries within it the seed of its own destruction."
The voice was faint, indistinct, almost swallowed by the darkness around him. Sylas felt himself plummeting endlessly, nothing but black void pressing in on all sides. His eyes searched desperately for something—anything—but soon grew heavy and closed.
When he woke, it was slow, as though the weight of sleep still clung to him. The room revealed itself in fragments. Pale light stretched across the ceiling, tracing tired old beams that had borne the burden of countless years.
The walls were plain and uneven, their quiet imperfections whispering of time's passage. Dust floated gently in the air, visible only when the light caught it, shifting like memories refusing to settle. Beneath him, the wooden floor creaked faintly, its boards etched with scratches and scars left by lives long gone.
Nothing demanded his attention, yet everything carried weight—a stillness heavy with the sense of something once lived but now absent. The space remembered more than it contained.
Then it struck him. The memories surged back: the death of his parents, the supernatural forces tearing through his home. His chest tightened. Somewhere deep inside, he clung to denial.
Please… let it all be a nightmare.
The words echoed in his heart as tears trickled down his cheeks.
Footsteps broke the silence. Slow, steady, unhurried. He turned his head toward the door. It creaked open, and Austin stepped inside. His movements were deliberate, his presence carrying both strength and sorrow.
Sylas pushed himself upright on the bed. The moment he saw his grandfather's face, hope slipped away. This was no dream. He could see it—the grief, quiet and unspoken, etched into Austin's expression.
Wiping his tears with trembling hands, Sylas forced a wry, broken smile.
"Grandpa… don't tell me all of this is real?"
Austin sighed. His eyes softened, though the weight in them was undeniable.
"Child… I wish I could tell you otherwise. But this grief is no illusion. It is the world you must now carry."
The last fragile strand of hope Sylas clung to finally snapped. This was no dream. His parents were truly gone.
He lowered his gaze, staring at his trembling hands. His hair fell forward, hiding his eyes. For a long time, he didn't speak. The silence stretched—thick, suffocating. Austin stood beside him without a word, a quiet pillar at his side.
At last, after what felt like an eternity, Sylas's voice broke through the stillness.
"Grandpa… I want to avenge my parents. I want to tear those bastards to shreds!"
Austin studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he gave a small nod, a glimmer of approval flickering in his eyes. The boy was not consumed by despair—at least, not entirely. He still had fire.
"Are you certain?" Austin asked, his voice low but firm.
"Yes." Sylas's fists clenched. "I know I'm not strong enough—not even close. But I swear it. I'll avenge them."
Austin rose to his feet, his presence filling the room with quiet authority. "So be it," he said, his tone carrying the weight of acceptance. "You have chosen your path."
***
Sylas and Austin stood in the underground hall, its air cool and damp, walls of jagged stone pressing in like silent sentinels. The chamber was vast yet enclosed, a place carved for secrecy—for hiding treasures, or oneself, from enemies.
After Sylas's vow, Austin had brought him here. This, he had said, would be the place of beginnings.
"Before you embark on your search for revenge, you must first glimpse the world hidden behind the curtain of night," Austin said, closing his eyes.
At first, only silence answered. Then, slowly, three points of white light flickered into being behind him. They spun and wove together, twisting into sigils—vast, intricate patterns that pulsed with their own rhythm. Spirals of light glowed against the void, their centers wound tightly with countless strands, thin as smoke yet unyielding. From each core branched arms of radiance, curling outward like lightning frozen in mid-strike, overlapping in endless concentric rings. The longer Sylas stared, the more the spirals seemed to draw him in, as though the universe itself was turning on their axis.
The atmosphere thickened. The space itself seemed to ripple, bending under the weight of Austin's presence. His aura shifted—calm elder no longer, but a veteran warrior cloaked in the authority of battles long past. As Austin opened his eyes, Sylas noticed the faintest white shimmer tracing his pupils, a mark of someone who had peered too deeply into the abyss and survived.
"This," Austin said, his voice low but steady, reverberating through the stone walls, "is the foundation of all existence. The Threads. Every being, every breath, every star in the void is woven by them. To touch them is to step beyond mortality."
Sylas's chest tightened. He had seen these symbols before—when his parents fought, when those men tore the world apart before his eyes—but fear and chaos had robbed him of understanding. Now, in this stillness, he saw the patterns clearly. The white sigils held something inexplicable, something that felt less like power and more like truth.
"Threads—also known as Threads of Will—are born from the innermost desire of a person," Austin began, his voice steady, each word sinking deep. "They are not just power, but conviction made manifest. And each color represents a domain."
Sylas's eyes sharpened as Austin continued, "Red symbolizes Destruction. Blue governs the Mind. Green carries the weight of Life and Death. White bends Space and Time. Purple is steeped in the sinister and the forbidden. And Orange embodies Purification."
Every word etched itself into Sylas's thoughts. He sat frozen, drinking in the knowledge as though the truth itself might slip away if he blinked.
"Each sigil grants abilities unique to its wielder," Austin said. "As you can see, I am of White. My strength lies in space."
He lifted his hand, palm outward. One of the white sigils behind him brightened, its light rippling outward like a stone cast into water. The air before his palm shivered—then split. A ragged gash tore open in reality itself, revealing a void so black it seemed to swallow the light around it. Within its depths, faint stars flickered and died like distant embers.
Austin stepped into the rift. For a heartbeat, Sylas was alone. Then—
"Power such as this may be awakened through will or inscribed."
The voice came from behind him. Sylas's heart lurched as he spun around. Austin emerged from an identical tear, brushing invisible dust from his shoulder as though he had merely crossed a doorway.
Sylas stared, wide-eyed. His lips parted before the words could form, but Austin cut him off with a small nod.
"You've seen this before, though you may not remember clearly. You have already awakened your Thread, child."
"I… awakened my Thread?" Sylas asked, disbelief breaking through his confusion.
"Yes," Austin said softly. "Close your eyes. Reach inward, to the deepest part of yourself. What is it you truly desire?"
Sylas obeyed. Darkness wrapped around him.
My innermost desire? I want to tear those bastards apart. I want them to suffer.
His breath quickened, his fists clenched. Anger bled into the air like fire spilling from a broken lantern. Austin's gaze sharpened as a crimson shimmer began to coil around the boy.
Threads of red gathered, weaving slowly into a sigil.
At its heart, a glowing core pulsed, dense with crisscrossing lines that formed a flower-shaped heart of flame. Twelve arms extended outward, curling like tongues of fire frozen mid-flicker, rippling in layered waves that spread into a fiery mandala. The air thickened as the aura of destruction poured forth, raw and oppressive, as if the world itself trembled under its weight.
Sylas's eyes snapped open within the darkness of his mind. Red threads shimmered all around him, glimmering with violent power. His veins felt as if they carried molten steel. His body screamed to destroy, to unleash.
"Control it," Austin's voice echoed, calm but commanding. "Do not let the Threads rule you. Weave them into order. Shape the sigil."
Sylas gritted his teeth, forcing the chaotic strands to converge. The more he pulled, the more they resisted, thrashing like beasts in a cage. Sweat beaded on his brow.
"Do not falter!" Austin's voice cut through him like a blade.
He roared within himself, dragging the threads together. Slowly, painfully, the chaos aligned into a single, radiant red sigil. It blazed behind him, its destructive aura pressing outward, filling the underground hall like a storm about to break.
Sylas opened his eyes. A faint red hue rimmed his pupils, his chest heaving as the sigil floated above him, seething with hunger to unmake everything.
Austin gave a single nod. "The Red Thread. The power of destruction itself. This is your path. Remember—each soul walks only one. Once awakened, no other Thread may ever be yours."
The glow dimmed. The sigil dissolved into sparks and vanished. Sylas staggered, wiping the sweat from his forehead, lungs burning as if he'd fought for hours.
"Not bad for a first time." Austin's voice softened. He handed Sylas a bottle of water. "From today, your training begins."
Sylas drank deeply. Determination lit his weary eyes, hard and unshakable.
Mom. Dad. I will avenge you.
But as the last traces of red faded from his pupils, a faint wisp of white glimmered deep within—so fleeting it went unnoticed by all.