----
The square still stank of ash.
By morning, the villagers had gathered to scrub the ground where the corrupted beast had fallen. The twisted wolf's remains had dissolved into a smear of black dust, but its stench clung like oil, seeping into the wood of the huts and the very soil. Mothers covered their children's noses with cloth; the men grimly shoveled the dirt, casting it into pits outside the village boundary.
Matthew sat at the threshold of his hut, knees drawn tight to his chest, watching the scene with hollow eyes. His mother fussed behind him, shaking out blankets, muttering about spirits, but her voice was little more than a murmur in his ears.
He could still feel it—the tug. The moment when his fingers brushed the beast's weave, when threads of rot screamed against his touch. The backlash had nearly torn him apart. His bones still ached as if the corruption had tried to gnaw its way inside him.
And yet… he had done it.
The beast had faltered because of him. The village still stood because of him.
But no one knew. No one except—
Matthew's eyes flicked across the square.
Liora was there, standing with her father, a bucket in her hands. Her braids were half undone, her face streaked with soot from the night's fight. She moved quickly, dutifully, but her sharp gaze kept sliding toward him. Not openly. Just glances, little cuts of attention that made his skin crawl.
She knew.
And she wasn't saying a word.
---
By midday, the elders called a gathering.
The entire village crowded the central square, where the old matriarch leaned on her staff, the carved wood thumping against the stones. Her eyes, clouded with cataracts, still gleamed like pale lanterns.
"The corruption has touched us," she rasped. "The black stars are no longer distant. They send their beasts to test our threads."
Murmurs spread like fire through dry grass. Some swore it was punishment, others said it was the frontier's curse finally creeping close. Hunters spoke of black trails deeper in the forest, where even birds refused to fly.
"We must cleanse the Loom around us," the matriarch continued. "Tonight, every family will burn charms. Every child will be bound in reed wards. We will not let the black stars unravel us."
The villagers bowed their heads, relief clinging to ritual. To them, it was faith. To Matthew, who saw the threads even now vibrating with faint corruption, it felt like patching a gaping wound with reeds and prayer.
But he said nothing.
His mother held him close as the crowd dispersed, whispering, "We'll be safe, Matthew. The Loom still holds us."
He wished he could believe her.
---
That night, fires burned high in the square again—but not for celebration. Families brought their reed charms, painted with stars and dipped in oil, and cast them into the flames. Sparks crackled, smoke spiraling into the drifting sky. Children cried from the sting of ash in their eyes, but their parents whispered the ritual words:
"Thread by thread, the Loom binds us. Flame to flame, the corruption unravels."
Matthew stood with his mother at the edge of the fire. She tied a new ward around his wrist, the reeds warm from her hands. "Don't take it off," she said, kissing his forehead. "It will keep you safe."
Safe.
But Matthew could still see the black threads writhing above the flames, wriggling through the smoke like worms. The ritual bound nothing. At best, it distracted the others. At worst, it lulled them into false comfort.
His fists clenched. He wanted to shout the truth. Wanted to tell them the Loom itself was sick, that the corruption was not shadows or beasts but something eating at the very fabric of the world.
But if he spoke, if he showed them what he saw…
They would fear him.
They would call him corrupted too.
So he swallowed the words and let the reed charm dangle from his wrist.
---
Later, when the fire had burned down and families returned to their huts, Matthew slipped away to the edge of the village. The sky drifted above him, constellations shifting as if the heavens themselves floated on unseen waters.
And there it was.
The black star.
Faint, pulsing, its threads writhing like a spider's web in rot.
It was closer tonight.
Matthew's breath caught. No one else could see it, but he knew—it was growing. It was watching.
A twig snapped behind him.
He turned to see Liora. Her torchlight cast sharp shadows across her face. She looked different now, stripped of bravado, all sharp eyes and calculation.
"You did something," she said. Not a question.
Matthew's throat tightened. "I—I don't know what you mean."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "The beast. It stopped when you lifted your hand. I saw it. The air shimmered. The hunters didn't notice, but I did."
Matthew's mouth went dry.
"I won't tell anyone," Liora continued, her tone unreadable. "But don't lie to me. You're not like the rest of us. Are you?"
Silence stretched between them. His heart hammered so hard it hurt.
Finally, Matthew whispered, "I don't want to be different."
Her eyes softened, just slightly. She held his gaze, then looked back at the drifting sky. "Doesn't matter what you want. Threads don't care. They pull where they will."
Then she turned, walking back toward the huts. "Just… don't get yourself killed."
Matthew stood frozen, the weight of her words pressing like iron on his chest.
---
The night passed heavy and restless.
Matthew dreamed of threads snapping, of black stars bleeding across the sky. He dreamed of wolves with broken limbs tearing at the Loom itself. He dreamed of himself—small, fragile—caught between strands, trying to weave, his hands burning from the corruption that clung to every fiber.
When he woke, his reed charm was blackened, the fibers brittle as ash. His mother slept soundly beside him, none the wiser.
Matthew stared at the ruined ward, his stomach twisting.
The rituals weren't enough. The elders weren't enough.
If the corruption kept spreading, if the black stars descended further—then everything here would unravel.
And the only one who could see it coming was him.
---
Far, far away—beyond the Drifting Realm, beyond even the weave of the Loom itself—another set of eyes watched.
Inside the Origin Realm, Kai lounged on a cloud-like couch, a massive glowing screen hovering in front of him. Ten square meters wide, woven from pure light-threads, it replayed the scene of Matthew standing beneath the black star.
Kai crunched a handful of popcorn, eyes glued to the drama unfolding.
"Man," he muttered, grinning. "This is better than anime. And I've watched a lot of anime."
Beside him, Ema glided forward in her flowing robe, balancing a silver tray of drinks. Her lips curved into a soft chuckle as she poured him a glass. "You sound like a child binging stories," she teased.
Kai shrugged, taking the glass. "Stories are good. But this? This is real. Look at him—little Matthew, already touching threads, already staring down corruption. That's peak character development right there."
Ema tilted her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. "So you enjoy watching him struggle?"
"Not enjoy," Kai said between sips. "Admire. Every great weave starts with broken strands, right? Besides…" He popped another kernel of popcorn into his mouth, eyes never leaving the screen. "This beats waiting around bored. Reality TV has nothing on reality itself."
Ema's chuckle was warm, almost indulgent. She settled beside him, watching the tiny boy on the screen raise his eyes toward the black star.
"Then," she murmured, "I suppose we both watch and see how far his thread will stretch."
Kai smirked, tossing another popcorn kernel into his mouth as the screen shimmered with Matthew's trembling silhouette.
"Yup," he said, leaning back comfortably. "Season two is just getting started."
The screen flickered, the black star pulsing ominously, as the laughter of popcorn and clinking glasses filled the Origin Realm.
--
[A/N:Sorry guys for not posting consistently,
I just started taking writing classes and I fil like I have gotten better ,comphered to when I just started writing the novel.hope you enjoyed the chapter and have a nice day]