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Matthew Greene had never been good at sleeping.
The chalkboards in his lab—once white, now stained with ghostly remnants of equations—were the reason why. Across them sprawled tangled lines of mathematics, overlapping fractals, curves, spirals, and sketches that looked more like constellations than equations.
At the center of it all was his obsession.
Threads.
He saw them everywhere.
In the vibration of a plucked guitar string.
In the swirl of galaxies.
In the invisible bonds between cause and effect.
He believed the universe was one great tapestry, and everything—physics, emotions, even time—was woven from threads unseen by ordinary eyes.
But nobody believed him.
"They're patterns, not laws," his supervisor had said years ago before cutting his funding.
"You're chasing phantoms," laughed colleagues who once called him a prodigy.
Even his younger sister, Eliza—the only one who'd stood by him—had walked away after their last bitter fight.
"I can't watch you burn yourself out, Matt," she had cried. "You're not weaving the truth—you're unraveling yourself."
Those words haunted him more than the ridicule of any scientist.
And now, alone in a basement lab no one visited, surrounded by cracked computers and half-broken spectrometers, Matthew traced the last lines of an equation that only he believed mattered.
"If only…" he whispered to the empty air. His voice cracked. "…if only I had more time."
---
The explosion wasn't cinematic. No fireball. No dramatic screaming. Just a hiss, a pop, and then a flash of white-hot light as the unstable prototype generator overloaded.
Matthew didn't feel pain. Only weightlessness.
And in that instant, his cursed eyes—the eyes that saw what no one else could—caught a glimpse of the world unspooling.
Threads.
Everywhere.
The beams, the machines, his very flesh—all snapping, scattering into loose filaments of reality.
His last thought was not of triumph, but of regret.
Eliza. I'm sorry. I couldn't finish it. I couldn't prove it. I couldn't make you believe in me again.
Darkness swallowed him.
---
Silence.
Matthew floated, or perhaps he didn't. He had no body. No hands, no eyes, no heartbeat. Yet somehow, he was.
A drifting awareness.
At first, he screamed. Or thought he did. But no sound came. The void devoured everything.
Minutes became hours. Hours became… eternity. There was no time here. No measure. Just endless drifting.
He relived his memories in fragments.
Equations that never worked.
Eliza's tears.
The way laughter in the lab turned cruel the moment he left the room.
The bitter taste of failure.
Regret festered. Fear grew.
Am I erased? Forgotten? Was my life meaningless?
But then—amidst the void—a tremor. A vibration that was not his own thought. Like a plucked string resonating across infinite emptiness.
And suddenly, before his formless awareness, threads appeared.
No—not threads. Something far more vast. Rivers of starlight. Lattices of space and shadow. Time coiling like a serpent.
Something—someone—was weaving.
And though Matthew could not see their face, he felt the intent. Gentle. Relentless. Creating.
A spark of warmth brushed against his essence, embedding deep inside.
The void collapsed.
The first thing he felt was air.
The second was cold.
A wail tore from his throat before he realized he had a throat again. Small lungs. Tiny arms. His entire body was fragile, helpless, newborn.
The ceiling above was not steel or tile but rough wood. Firelight flickered across stone walls. The air smelled of smoke, herbs, and something faintly metallic.
He was in a hut. A medieval hut.
Panic surged through him. His mind, still his own, rattled against the sudden cage of infant flesh. He kicked and cried, twisting in swaddling cloth.
And then—
[Ding.]
System initialization… complete.]
The words rang not in his ears, but in his mind. Cold, mechanical, yet tinged with something deeper—like the whisper of stars.
Matthew froze. Well, as much as a newborn could freeze. His tiny fists clenched, his cry cutting short into a startled hiccup.
[Welcome, Matthew Weaver.]
His name. The voice knew his name.
[You have been selected as the first bearer of the Origin Weaver System. Bound to you by decree of #&#&3-€°€. Integration… complete.]
Matthew's newborn body shuddered. He wanted to scream, but curiosity overpowered terror. A… system? Bound by what?
In the void of his mind, he forced the question. Who—or what—is #&#&3-€°€?
There was a pause. Then the voice replied:
[Insufficient authority. Even I cannot decipher the full designation. To unlock this knowledge, you must evolve your existence and expand System Authority.]
Matthew's tiny eyes widened. Even the System doesn't know…?
The voice pulsed again, softer this time.
[What you must know is this: you were chosen. You saw threads before anyone else. Now you will weave them.]
---
Light flared across his inner vision. A panel unfolded, etched not with words but with shimmering strands, like glowing filaments in a loom. They bent, twisted, and arranged themselves into a readable form:
[Origin Weaver System – Version 1.0]
Bound Host: Matthew Weaver
Current Realm: Drifting Realm - 172, Outer Fragment of the Aster Frontier
Status: Newborn Vessel
Authority: Thread Initiate
Abilities:
Thread Perception (Passive): You can see the underlying threads of reality—laws, fate lines, and connections.
Thread Collection: Weave fragments of law, skill, or memory into threads for later use.
Thread Fusion: Combine compatible threads to create new abilities.
Pattern Instinct: Intuitively recognize optimal "weaves" during combat or growth.
Restrictions:
Power is proportional to understanding. Forceful weaving without comprehension may cause backlash.
System upgrades locked until higher Authorization.
Matthew stared at the glowing text. Or rather, he felt himself staring—because he was still an infant, eyes too weak to focus. Yet the knowledge imprinted directly into his soul.
A System. A real System. Like something out of the webnovels he secretly devoured between failed experiments
A laugh bubbled up inside him, silent but fierce. Threads… it really is threads.
All the years of mockery, disbelief, dismissal—swept away. Here, in this strange world, his vision wasn't madness. It was power.
--
The woman cradling him hummed softly, oblivious to the cosmic revolution that had just unfolded within her child. Outside the hut, the sounds of a medieval village drifted faintly—wood being chopped, animals bleating, people shouting in rough dialects.
Matthew blinked slowly. His body was fragile, helpless, but his mind burned brighter than it ever had.
So this was reincarnation. A new world. A new chance.
The voice whispered one final time before fading into the background:
[Matthew Weaver, First of the Loom. Your thread has been spun.]
He exhaled—well, more of a gurgle—but deep in his soul he smiled.
Maybe… this is the time I get to finish weaving the truth.
And so, in a small hut on the edge of a drifting realm, the first Weaver opened his eyes to destiny.
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Author's note:hope you guys enjoyed the chapter,I really put in a lot of work in designing
the concept of the system.
Pls comment, review and add to your collections .