The days after Bai Chen's weaving at the ruins passed with deceptive calm.
The village went about its usual life: farmers bent over fields, mothers called out to playful children, and Spirit Hall priests moved through once a week to maintain order. At a glance, nothing had changed.
But Bai Chen noticed the difference.
Children who strayed near the ruins often returned with strangely focused eyes. Some practiced longer, more determined than usual. A handful even seemed to awaken clearer control over spirit energy in their bodies. At first, it was subtle—no one thought much of it. But Bai Chen knew. It was working. His myth seed had begun to grow.
Every night, he practiced in silence, weaving stray fragments. A flame that whispered of Ra's eternal sun. A shadow that resembled Anubis overlooking a jackal-headed beast. Whispers of thunder echoing in the distance—as if Thor's hammer tested the skies.
Most of these attempts crumbled almost instantly. He had little energy to sustain them. But failures taught him something important: myths did not need belief in him—they needed belief in themselves. If he forced them, reality tore them down. But if he seeded them in ways that inspired wonder or seemed like "mysteries of the world," reality accepted them.
This discovery exhilarated him.
It also humbled him.
He realized quickly that he could not reveal anything grand yet. A god, a civilization, even a beast like Garuda or Leviathan—all of them were too costly. He wasn't ready.
Instead, he had to start small. With fragments. With whispers. With things that people would dismiss as coincidences… until those coincidences formed history.
It was on the seventh night after his awakening that Bai Chen sat silently under a crooked willow tree near the fields. The moonlight washed the tall grass silver, and his silver thread hummed faintly before him.
A figure stumbled nearby—one of the village children. Thin, scrawny, barely stronger than the sparrows he often tried to chase. His name was Lin Hai, the son of a poor fisherman.
Bai Chen had seen him before. The boy's martial spirit awakening had revealed a dull "River Fish" with hardly any combat potential. Even the Spirit Hall priest had told him flatly: "Useless. Your path ends here."
Lin Hai sat heavily near the willow tree, clutching his knees. His face was hidden but his shoulders trembled. Behind closed lips, muffled cries escaped.
"I don't… want to be useless…"
Bai Chen's gaze softened. Perhaps a month ago, he might have ignored it. But not now. He saw the fragile spark of desperation—the kind of spark that myths fed on.
Slowly, he raised his hand. The silver thread shimmered, attentive, waiting for his will.
He whispered inwardly.
The eater of serpents. The radiant wings of the heavens. Garuda who soars above rivers and seas… Let a fragment of that myth live on in this child.
The thread extended, vanishing into Lin Hai's trembling chest. Bai Chen's vision darkened briefly—energy drained sharply. Then a faint golden light flickered in Lin Hai's body. It was subtle, almost invisible, but Bai Chen saw it: the River Fish martial spirit shifted, its scales glittering faintly with new brilliance. Its dull fins sharpened like the edge of feathers, its eyes brightened with keen instinct.
Lin Hai gasped, clutching his chest. His body shuddered as a rush of spirit energy stirred awake.
"What's… happening?"
Bai Chen exhaled quietly, withdrawing the thread. He said nothing. He simply watched from the shadows, unseen, unknown.
The boy staggered to his feet and stared at his own hands. When he summoned his martial spirit again, the River Fish no longer looked lifeless. It shimmered faintly gold, its fins moving with unnatural vigor. Its presence was still weak—but alive.
Tears rolled down Lin Hai's face, but this time they were not from despair.
"I… I can still fight? I can still be… someone?"
He laughed through his crying before running off toward his home, clutching at his glowing martial spirit.
Bai Chen leaned back against the tree. His head felt heavy; his energy was almost completely drained. Even such a small change to one child's martial spirit had taken everything he'd gathered.
But the smile never left his lips.
That was it. That was the truth of weaving a myth.
It wasn't about rewriting the whole world at once. It was about planting sparks where despair burned darkest. It was about lifting shadows into light, whispering power into forgotten corners—until eventually those fragments built an unshakable foundation.
He murmured softly, staring at the drifting moon.
"Go on, Lin Hai. Shine for everyone else. Think it was destiny. Think it was your own hard work. Never know the hand that gave it."
His silver thread pulsed gently, like an approving heartbeat.
This was the road of the unseen.
This was the road he had chosen.
News in a village traveled fast. By the next morning, whispers had already begun.
"Did you see Lin Hai yesterday? That boy with the fish spirit?"
"Useless, wasn't he? Like a soggy reed."
"Not anymore. They say when he summoned his martial spirit last night, it glowed!"
"Impossible. Fish spirits are trash."
"Then explain how the boy's father swears he saw golden scales lighting up the house?"
The whispers carried curiosity, skepticism, and faint awe. Lin Hai himself could barely explain it. When Spirit Hall's priest called him a failure, he had believed it. Yet somehow, without ever cultivating, his martial spirit seemed… reborn.
No one suspected Bai Chen. Why would they? He was the boy with the flimsy thread, nothing more. Yet as he listened to the gossip while hauling water for his mother, he couldn't help but notice the flicker of energy forming around the villagers.
It wasn't just Lin Hai. Even those who spoke of the event began carrying faint ripples of resonance. Their belief—whether skepticism or amazement—was fueling the seed Bai Chen had planted. A simple "coincidence" had begun to grow into a shared story, and from shared stories came… myths.
That night, Bai Chen checked his system.
[Myth Energy: 0.07]
[Notice: Myth Seed Resonance achieved. Passive generation active.]
His lips curved into a faint smile. He barely had to move and his energy had multiplied. The ruin's seed had been subtle—the children's wonder had only brushed it faintly. But this event with Lin Hai… it touched directly on the dreams of parents and children alike: the dream not to be useless, for a miracle to transform one's spirit.
The system whispered softly in his ears:
[The stronger the hope, the stronger the myth.]
"I see…" Bai Chen murmured. "So lifting despair builds faith, and faith feeds the loom."
He closed his eyes, considering. Tang San was probably training hard at Nuoding Academy right now, following the clear path of martial talent. The future "hero" of Soul Land had no need for these threads of shadow.
But the forgotten… the hopeless… they were perfect soil for him.
Two days later, Spirit Hall priests visited the village again to collect reports. Normally, it was a routine affair. Yet this time, they lingered suspiciously.
The lead priest frowned as villagers chattered around him about "the boy with the golden fish scales." He summoned Lin Hai, inspected his martial spirit, and indeed, frowned deeper when the dull fish spirit now carried faint traces of mutation.
"This…" He narrowed his eyes. "A natural mutation?"
"It must be Heaven's blessing," one villager urged. "The boy prayed at the old ruins too. Maybe… the heavens heard him!"
At the mention of ruins, Bai Chen's calm eyes narrowed just slightly. He had expected Spirit Hall's interest eventually, but not this soon.
The priest traced his fingers over Lin Hai's martial spirit, but found nothing sinister. Souls could naturally mutate on rare occasions. He concluded only:
"Unusual. Worth recording. We will report to higher clergy."
Then he turned cold eyes over the villagers. "Do not spread superstition. Say what happened as it is: a rare fluke. Heaven has no interest in lowly villages."
Most villagers bowed, silent. But Bai Chen noticed some of them exchanging looks: hopeful, stubborn, whispering even through fear. They didn't believe Spirit Hall's cold words. They believed miracles could happen.
And that belief fed his thread once more, humming faintly against his heart.
That evening, Bai Chen sat upon the edge of the little ruin, looking up toward the faint starlight. He could feel his Myth Energy climbing, slowly but surely. A sensation like threads tightening around him, like the loom hungering for more.
"If even one weak river fish can awaken new hope," he mused aloud, "what of the countless forgotten across this continent? The slaves, the orphans, the failures? Each despair another thread to weave."
He held out his palm. The silver thread floated again, quivering with gentle light. He could almost hear its voice—not words, exactly, but a resonance that guided him.
Not grand now. Not empires. Not gods. Just fragile fragments of hope.
That would be enough… for now.
A smile touched his lips as he whispered, unseen by anyone but the stars:
"I will turn despair into myth. And yet, none will ever know the one who did it."
The silver thread pulsed like the quiet heartbeat of destiny itself.
The forest surrounding the village was not vast. Most children ventured into its safe paths to play, while farmers cut firewood closer to the edges. But deeper within, whispers spoke of spirit beasts—creatures strong enough to kill, weak though they were compared to those in the core forests.
It was there, one quiet night, that Bai Chen walked alone, the moon his only lantern.
Each day since Lin Hai's transformation, his Myth Energy grew. It was still meager, hardly enough to weave anything grand, but it was enough for experiments. He had tested on ruins, on people… but not yet on beasts.
And if I can influence beasts, he thought, then I can test another layer of this system.
The deeper he walked, the thicker the air grew. Leaves rustled faintly above him, carrying scents of damp soil and raw life. Eventually, after what felt like an hour, his steps slowed as he felt it—spirit energy, faint but distinct.
There, beneath a crooked pine, lay a dying wolf.
Its grey fur was matted with blood, its breaths weak and ragged. Claw marks scarred its side, evidence of some fight gone wrong. Its aura flickered—once a small 400-year spirit beast, now its life burned like the last ember of a dying fire.
Bai Chen paused. Normally, humans would kill such a beast for its ring, but its spirit energy was already fading too quickly to leave anything useful.
His silver thread pulsed in his palm.
"This wolf is already forgotten," Bai Chen murmured. "No hunter will remember it. No spirit master will benefit from it. It will vanish like dust."
The wolf opened one eye weakly, its golden iris dim—yet it tried to bare its teeth. Even dying, it refused to surrender.
Bai Chen felt something stir in his chest.
"…That spirit. Yes. You don't deserve to vanish."
The thread extended, wrapping gently around the beast. He closed his eyes, summoning not the sunlight myths of gods this time, but something rooted in shadow and death. His memory reached back—Egyptian sands, dark figures with jackal heads who guided souls across the underworld. Anubis. Guardian of the dead.
Let this beast's death be rewritten. Let it carry the shadow of Anubis, shepherd of underworld souls.
The silver thread blazed faintly. Bai Chen's chest tightened as energy poured out of him. Pain lanced his head; fatigue weighed his limbs. But still, he willed it. Scenes flashed faintly across his eyes—black fur, ember eyes, a gaze like twilight.
Then it happened.
The wolf convulsed once, its labored breath caught… and then steadied. A black glow spread across its body, erasing the blood and wounds. Its fur shimmered, changing shade—grey turning into dark charcoal with faint silver streaks across its back. Its golden eyes bled into a deep crimson glow like smoldering embers.
The aura it carried was no longer fragile. Still weak compared to true beasts, but darker, colder… like the shadow of death itself hung around it.
The wolf rose to its feet slowly, cautiously, yet without hostility. It stared at Bai Chen. Something in that crimson gaze recognized the one who had pulled it back from the abyss.
A low rumble escaped its throat, but not of threat. Of submission.
[Myth Seed Infusion Complete.]
[New Entity Generated: Shadow Wolf (Fragment of Anubis's Hound).]
[Status: Bound by Myth Resonance to Host.]
Bai Chen exhaled sharply, falling to one knee. Sweat dripped down his brow, his chest rising and falling. That weaving had drained nearly all the energy he possessed.
But as the wolf padded forward, bowing its head and pressing its muzzle against his hand, Bai Chen let out a small laugh.
"So you've chosen to follow me too… a forgotten beast reborn."
The Shadow Wolf growled softly, a sound more like acknowledgment than threat.
For a moment, boy and beast simply stood there beneath the moonlight—silent, companions bound by a story no one else would ever know.
Bai Chen closed his eyes and whispered to himself:
"The ruin, the boy, the beast… each is but a thread. Someday, all threads will weave together into a tapestry too vast for anyone to unravel."
He rose once more, the wolf quietly padding behind him like a shadow.
The village would never know what had been born this night. Spirit Hall would never trace it. But in the darkness, a partnership had formed.
Not of hero and beast. But of weaver and myth.
When Bai Chen returned home, a faint glow of energy lingered in his body. His system chimed softly:
[Myth Energy: 0.12 → 0.16]
[Notice: Myth resonance deepens when bonded with creatures of faith or loyalty.]
Bai Chen smiled faintly even as drowsiness overtook him. Yes… this was the right path.
The myths he wove would live quietly through others.
And he… he would remain in silence, the forgotten figure at the back of history.
As he drifted off to sleep, the Shadow Wolf curled at the foot of his bed like a silent guardian, red eyes glowing softly in the night.
Unseen. Untold. But very, very real.