The sun barely rose over Veynar's rooftops, spilling pale light into the alleys like a weak apology. Rayon sat on the edge of a broken fountain, muscles sore, back aching, but eyes sharp, alert, unblinking.
The bread from yesterday had long been eaten. Hunger was constant, but now it was a tool, a sharpening stone for his mind and body. Rayon flexed his fingers, feeling the faint pull of threads lingering in the air. He ran a fingertip along the invisible strings that hummed around the fountain, tugging slightly, twisting subtly.
Some threads obeyed. Others resisted. Some shimmered like fine glass; others snapped under the tension of his curiosity.
The fight yesterday had taught him one thing: strength alone wasn't enough. The Hollow Strings were power, yes—but a weak body couldn't control them efficiently.
So he trained.
Rayon lifted broken stones, swung at nothing but air, pushed his body to limits the slums demanded. Every punch, every kick, every grunt was measured, precise. He experimented, combining instincts with the faint strings he could already sense:
A stone swung in his hand could be guided subtly by thread to hit a target dead-on. A fallen board could twist midair, smashing into a rat or stray dog. Even his own reflexes could be enhanced; the strings whispered where tension and balance lay, giving him micro-advantage in motion.
Days blurred. Hunger, pain, exhaustion—they were constants. Rayon didn't sleep properly. His body ached, joints cracked, muscles screamed. But when he touched the strings, when he pulled and bent the world, the pain faded, replaced by a pulsing clarity that was almost intoxicating.
By the end of the week, Rayon was faster, stronger, sharper. Hands could crush bone; legs could pivot and launch him like a spring. The Hollow Strings now weren't just reactive—they were extensions of him. Every tug, twist, or pull instinctive, like his own heartbeat.
Strength alone would take him far—but the gutter taught him cunning. And cunning was more lethal than fists.
Rayon began to test people, pulling on threads invisibly:
A drunken man in the alley slipped, spilling his meager coin purse right into Rayon's waiting hands. Two gangs clashed nearby. Rayon tugged subtly at the nerves, instincts, and fears of their members. A fist here, a stumble there—soon the skirmish collapsed into chaos, and Rayon picked up a few knives and trinkets left behind without lifting a finger. Even the city rats became pawns. By tugging at their instinctive threads, he could flush out hidden coins, watchmen, or unattended food.
No one noticed. No one realized the strings had moved for them.
Rayon smiled to himself in the dark. It was intoxicating—the world bending without anyone suspecting the source.
For the first time, Rayon understood: survival was no longer about reacting. It was about orchestrating.
A Taste of the Future
That night, sitting atop a broken warehouse, hollow eyes scanning the city, Rayon traced faint threads connecting houses, alleys, and people. Every living thing hummed with potential. Every choice, every instinct, every heartbeat was a string waiting to be pulled.
And he would pull them all.
He didn't feel remorse. He didn't feel guilt. Only a dark, methodical certainty: if you want to live in this world, you either dominate, manipulate, or die. And Rayon Veynar had no intention of dying.
Tomorrow, he would test the city further. Tomorrow, he would see how much of this world could be made to dance to his strings.
And the gutter would remember his name—whether they wanted to or not.