The night draped Veynar city in shadows so thick they felt almost solid. Rayon perched atop a rooftop, black hair blending into darkness, hollow eyes scanning the streets below. The alleyways weren't just alleys tonight—they were threads, and every thread hummed with potential.
His first target: two rival gangs fighting over a shipment of stolen goods, unaware that a single tug could reshape the outcome.
Rayon's fingers twitched. He closed his eyes and reached out, feeling the threads like invisible lines stretching from their minds, muscles, and instincts.
The first gang's leader: thick muscle, overconfident, thinks he controls his men. Rayon traced the tension in his shoulders, tugged at the instinctive thread that screamed protect me. A whisper of doubt. The leader hesitated. The second gang: nervous, jittery, smelling the fear in the air. Rayon flicked their perception threads, amplifying the anxiety. Their hands shook, their vision narrowed—focusing on phantoms he planted just outside their peripheral vision.
This was the Hollow Strings at work: not brute force, not illusions alone, but manipulation of perception, instinct, and reaction simultaneously.
Rayon didn't strike a single blow. He didn't need to.
The first gang lunged, but their leader stumbled, a misstep orchestrated by Rayon's tug at the string of balance beneath his foot. They collided with their own men. Confusion erupted.
From the second gang, Rayon tugged at their emotional threads—fear and rage, intertwined—turning brother against brother. Screams and the sound of breaking bones filled the night.
He watched the chaos unfold, tracing strings like a conductor of destruction. A hand here, a whispered suggestion there, and the gangs tore each other apart without realizing who was pulling the strings.
By the time Rayon moved in, the alley was a blood-soaked mess. Bodies groaned, faces twisted in panic. Not a single man had suspected a child from the gutter could orchestrate this.
He walked calmly through the carnage, bread in hand, shards of glass ready for anyone bold enough to notice him.
Rayon paused on a crate, watching a man crawl toward a fallen knife. With a flick of his finger, the thread connecting the man's hand to his brain's motor control bent. The hand froze midair, hovering uselessly. The man stared at it, panic flooding his eyes.
Hollow Strings weren't magic in the usual sense—they were extensions of the world's hidden threads, the invisible connective tissue of life. They could:
Manipulate perception: make someone see, hear, or feel things that weren't there—or miss what was. Control instinct: subtly nudge reactions, movements, even speech. Bind and cut: physical threads could restrain, slice, or redirect motion, from a falling brick to a man's arm. Sense connections: detect tension in the environment, see the heartbeat of a crowd, trace emotion like a map.
And Rayon was just beginning.
The more he practiced, the more strings obeyed his will—not just people, but objects, animals, even environmental threads like loose boards or stones. Every movement became premeditated, precise, perfect.
The First Lesson of Manipulation
By dawn, Rayon stood alone amidst the wreckage. No one had survived fully intact—but that didn't matter. The gangs would talk. Rumors would spread. Fear would spread. The city would bend, one invisible thread at a time.
Rayon didn't feel pride. Not yet. He felt satisfaction. Control. The world was malleable. Power was real. Survival was guaranteed—if he remained sharp, cunning, and merciless.
And for the first time, he realized this wasn't just about staying alive anymore. This was about building a web—of influence, fear, and obedience. And every man, every woman, every creature in the city was a string he could pull.
He looked to the horizon, hollow eyes glinting in the early morning light.
"The world…" he whispered to himself. "It's mine to weave."