---
The threads slipped.
One moment Matthew thought he had them under control—woven tight, balanced like strands of silk between his fingertips. The next, they writhed like snakes. The backlash slammed through his chest, hot and violent, and his knees buckled.
He dropped to the dirt floor of the shed, coughing blood into his hand. His veins pulsed black for an instant before fading back to normal.
No. Not normal.
Nothing about this was normal.
Matthew pressed trembling fingers against the wood beam beside him, trying to steady his breath. The children outside laughed, their voices muffled by walls. They didn't hear the whispers. They didn't see the threads tightening around his vision, or feel the black star pulsing inside his skull.
It's watching me.
The thought came unbidden, and once it lodged itself in his mind, it refused to leave. Every time he dared to practice the weave, he felt its gaze. Cold, unblinking, patient.
And every time, it left a little more of itself inside him.
---
The villagers thought he was improving. His mother smiled when he lifted water jugs without stumbling. Liora teased him less, though her eyes lingered longer whenever he fell silent. Mira still gave him pebbles and herbs as if he were her secret confidant.
But Matthew knew the truth. His body was failing. His bones ached too soon, his sleep was restless, and sometimes when he stared too long into someone's face, threads of rot ran across their features.
Corruption.
---
The accident happened three days later.
Bren's father had dropped a tool—a pickaxe with its handle splintered clean through. The man cursed, already preparing to throw it away.
"I can fix it," Matthew heard himself say.
The adults chuckled. "A boy like you? You'll cut your fingers before you fix that."
But Matthew had already taken the broken wood in his hands.
The threads sang to him. Split grain, frayed fibers, metal teeth bent from years of use. It would be easy—just slice through the weave, rejoin it clean, and smooth the line. He'd done it a hundred times in secret.
Except this time, something answered.
The corruption surged up his arm like oil. Black veins split across his skin as the whispers pressed into his skull.
Unravel everything… everything is just threads… cut them all…
His vision swam. He nearly obeyed. For one terrible heartbeat, he saw not the tool—but the entire world as a fabric to be undone. Children. Homes. Even his mother. One tug, and they'd all be gone.
Matthew bit down hard on his lip until blood filled his mouth. "No!"
The threads snapped back, the tool rejoined, whole again. The corruption withdrew, leaving him trembling and pale, sweat soaking through his shirt.
The villagers cheered. "Well done, boy!"
They didn't see the veins still darkening under his skin. They didn't hear the whispers.
Only Liora, watching from the edge, saw how his hand shook long after the pickaxe was fixed.
---
That night Matthew couldn't sleep. His body burned as if something was chewing its way out from within. He curled under the thin blanket, clutching his chest, and whispered to himself.
"I can't stop. If I stop, it wins. If I stop, the village suffers."
He thought of Mira's tears when she lost her necklace. Of Bren's pride when his stick didn't break mid-game. Of his mother's tired smile when she believed her son was finally fitting in.
He had no choice.
Even if it killed him, he would keep weaving.
Even if it destroyed him, he would not let go.
---
The ten-meter screen flickered.
Kai sighed and set the popcorn bucket down, brushing crumbs off his lap. "Geez… that kid's got it rough."
Ema stood behind him, pouring chilled nectar into a glass. Her expression was unreadable, though her eyes softened briefly at the sight of Matthew's trembling form on the screen.
"Do you pity him?" she asked.
Kai leaned back, stretching. "Pity? Nah. It's more like… I'm watching a survival horror anime spliced with a shonen arc. Entertaining, but also… unsettling."
He waved his hand, shifting the screen aside. "Anyway, back to work."
---
The Origin Realm shifted. Stars bent inward, forming circles of light around Kai. Before him floated three miniature models of soul-cycles—intricate as clockwork, humming with potential.
Cycle One: energy dispersed, recycled into the world.
Cycle Two: will preserved, souls reborn with memory intact.
Cycle Three: judgment-based, punishment or reward shaping eternity.
Kai snapped his fingers, and the prototypes rotated like toys. "So this is what gods play with, huh? Pick your flavor of afterlife."
Ema tilted her head. "Most universes follow the first system by default. It is efficient. But you… are not bound to efficiency."
Kai grinned. "Yeah, efficiency's boring."
---
A shadow fell across the chamber. The air thickened.
Kai blinked—and suddenly he was standing in a land unlike any other.
(Helheim.)
A land where rivers of souls flowed like silver oceans, carrying whispers of forgotten lives. Obsidian gates loomed high, opening onto halls carved from bone and shadow.
On the throne of bone sat a woman draped in black. Her skin was pale as frost, her eyes endless pits of silence. The weight of her presence silenced even the dead.
Hella, Goddess of Death.
---
A subordinate knelt before her, debriefing reports of soul management. When the figure departed, Kai stepped forward casually.
The reaction was instant. Hella's eyes widened, her composure shattering. She leapt from the throne, falling to one knee.
"F-father!"
Kai blinked. "...Father?"
Her voice trembled with excitement she could not hide. "I thought—it would be a long age before you visited again!"
Kai rubbed the back of his neck. Embarrassment tingled up his spine, but he forced a straight face. "I, uh… just came to check on things. Do a little sightseeing."
Hella's cold mask melted into something startlingly warm. She rose, her steps quick, almost eager. "If Father permits, I will give you a tour. Helheim may be barren, but I can show you its rivers, its halls… everything I've built in your name!"
She knelt again, eyes gleaming with pride and a touch of desperation.
Kai froze, caught between awe and sheer awkwardness.
"…If people saw the cold Lady Death acting like a spoiled child," he muttered under his breath, "they'd probably die from shock."
---