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The corruption didn't leave.
Even after the beasts had been slain, after the villagers burned charms and whispered prayers, Matthew saw it—thin, black filaments weaving through the night air. No one else reacted. To them, the sky had returned to normal. To him, it was a wound that never closed.
And the wound was spreading.
In the quiet mornings, while his mother was still asleep, Matthew began to practice.
Not openly. Never where eyes could pry. Instead, he sat behind their hut where moss climbed the wooden posts and tried to pull at the smallest things—the loose thread of a reed mat, the line of tension in a pebble, the faint pulse of a grass stem.
At first, nothing happened. His fingers trembled, his vision swam, and the weave refused to bend.
But slowly, painfully, he learned.
A tug at the right angle made a pebble shift as if nudged by wind. A twist of thought along the weave of a reed tightened its fibers, as though it had just been freshly cut. Once, when he brushed against a grass blade, he felt its life-thread flicker against his skin—so fragile he nearly snapped it in two.
The backlash was always brutal. His temples throbbed. His nose bled. Once, he fainted outright, waking to find his mother shaking him, frantic. He lied and said he had tripped in the woods.
But he couldn't stop.
Every failure, every ache, taught him more. The weave of the world was a puzzle, and he was the only one with the pieces.
--
Of course, hiding wasn't easy.
"Why do you always sneak away?"
Matthew froze. Liora leaned against the fence one afternoon, her sharp eyes catching him just as he'd coaxed a pebble to hover for a heartbeat. The pebble dropped the instant he turned.
"I wasn't—"
"Don't bother," she cut him off. Her voice wasn't mocking, but neither was it kind. It was assessing. "I know you're different. You don't have to tell me what. But you should be careful."
"Careful?" His throat tightened.
She pushed off the fence, stepping closer, lowering her voice. "If the elders think you're cursed, they'll cast you out. Or worse. Whatever you're doing, keep it hidden."
Matthew swallowed. She wasn't threatening him—if anything, she was warning him. But the weight of her gaze left him shaken.
He nodded, and she smirked. "Good. Then at least one of us is smart."
Then she left, leaving him staring at the dropped pebble like it was a secret too heavy for his hands.
That night, Matthew dreamed again.
He walked across a field of black threads, endless and tangled, the constellations above dripping tar instead of starlight. In the distance, wolves with shattered limbs prowled, their bodies unraveling with every step.
But what terrified him most was not them.
It was the voice.
"Weaver."
It wasn't spoken aloud. It thrummed through the threads themselves, resonating in his chest.
"Weaver. Cut. Break. Join."
He woke drenched in sweat, clutching his wrist where the reed charm had once hung. It was ash now, flaking at the touch. His mother still slept peacefully beside him.
Matthew turned toward the window. The black star pulsed faintly above, like an eye that never closed.
He whispered to himself, voice trembling. "If I don't learn, we'll all unravel."
And so, even as fear clawed at him, he resolved to keep practicing—alone, in secret.
[Origin realm]
The great 10-square-meter screen still hovered before him, replaying Matthew's trembling attempts at weaving. Kai munched popcorn, utterly invested.
"See, that's the arc I like," he muttered. "Kid's scared, bleeding out the nose, but he still tries again. That's character development."
Ema appeared beside him, carrying a carafe of shining liquid. She poured gracefully into his glass. "You watch him with unusual focus."
Kai grinned. "Of course. You ever seen anime training arcs? This one's live. And real stakes. Honestly, beats most of what Earth had to offer."
Ema chuckled softly, settling beside him. "Still, your amusement hides curiosity. You're not only watching for entertainment."
Kai didn't deny it. He leaned back, eyes on the screen but voice quieter now. "I've been watching the development of all nine dimensions. Tracking how their systems mature, how the rules solidify. It's fascinating—like watching different stories sprout from the same seed."
He popped another kernel into his mouth, then tilted his head. "But there's something I've been meaning to ask, Ema."
She arched a brow. "Go on."
Kai turned toward her, expression thoughtful. "Before I created Helheim—the dimension of the dead—where did all the souls go in the Origin Universe? What happened to the dead?"
Ema's gaze softened, almost reverent.
"They returned to you."
Kai blinked. "…To me?"
She nodded. "Every soul, upon death, unraveled into pure energy. That energy dissolved back into the universe, which is you. That is the natural cycle for most universes: no afterlife, no judgment, only return."
Kai leaned back, considering. "So… basically recycling. Souls die, feed back into me, keep the engine running."
"Yes," Ema said. "But you are not bound to such rules. You may let the cycle remain… or you may choose to weave something different."
Kai tapped his chin, a grin spreading. "So if I wanted to build a system where heroes keep their will after death, or villains face consequences, I could?"
Ema's lips curved faintly. "You could. You already have, by dreaming Helheim into existence."
Kai whistled low. "Damn. Talk about creative control. Anime arcs, hero journeys, now the afterlife system? Being the Origin is like running the best sandbox game."
Ema chuckled, pouring him another drink.
Kai raised his glass toward the screen, where Matthew's tiny form stood trembling beneath the black star. "Here's to the boy and the threads he'll weave. And here's to the worlds yet to come."
The screen shimmered, the black star pulsing ominously, while in the Origin Realm laughter, drinks, and popcorn filled the air.