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The Scarecrow's Smile

ash_walk
35
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 35 chs / week.
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Synopsis
He awoke in a dying field. No name. No memory. Only a crooked smile. In a world ruled by Sigils—mystic marks that define your power and place—he was branded Common. The lowest tier. A weakling’s fate. But some fates are written in ink, others in blood. A wandering clown, a quiet puppet, a scarecrow with eyes that never blink—whispers of forgotten things trail his steps. As he journeys across kingdoms, hunted and haunted, he begins to sense something is terribly wrong. Why does everyone fear the ordinary? Why do memories slip away like sand? And why does his name… not feel like his own? This is not a hero’s story. It’s something older. And it’s watching.
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Chapter 1 - Chapter 1 : Straw and thread

The rain tasted like ash.

Lumen lay still on the gravel, staring up at a sky that didn't belong to Earth. Clouds churned unnaturally above him — stitched like torn cloth, pulsing with violet veins. Every breath burned. Smoke leaked from his chest like his lungs had caught fire.

"…This isn't a dream, is it?"

The pain in his ribs said no. The blood on his knuckles said no.

And somewhere, far off — a laugh.

High-pitched. Playful. Wrong.

It was the laugh he heard just before he died.

Not a heroic death. No final words. No saving a busload of orphans. Just a street corner. Earbuds. A flash of red and white. A clown across the road, smiling. Pointing.

Then darkness.

Now… here.

Somewhere else.

Somewhere stitched.

He sat up. His coat was gone. His shoes were wrong. The gravel beneath him shimmered faintly like thread soaked in oil. Wind moved through the grass in slow, deliberate patterns, as if afraid to be loud.

A System window blinked open.

🛠️ [System Initialization]

[Entity Class: Unknown / External Anomaly]

➤ Sigil Tier: Common Assigned — Threadbinder (🪡)

➤ Cognitive Integrity: Unstable

➤ Observation Level: Passive

🛠️ [You are being watched.]

His breath caught.

Then, another line:

"He's stitched wrong, but let him walk awhile. Let's see what unravels."

And just as quickly as it appeared — the window vanished.

Lumen didn't understand. But deep in his spine, something pulled taut.

He wasn't alone.

He stood, wincing, scanning the charred black field around him. Dead grass. Twisted trees. A crooked road made of bones and gravel stretched ahead.

So he walked.

Because if something was watching, he wouldn't sit still for it.

And because maybe — just maybe — if this was a second life, he'd earn a better ending than the first.

🪡 Goal seeded: Find out why you were brought here. Before they unravel you.

He wandered for hours. The sky didn't change. There was no sun, just dim light, like the world had a memory of daytime but forgot how to do it right.

It wasn't until he collapsed under the gnarled branches of a dying tree that he heard the voice.

🛠️ [System Initialization]

[Identity Scanned]

➤ Name: Unknown

➤ Race: Human (??? - External Anomaly Detected)

➤ Sigil Status: Common Tier ⟶ Assigned: Threadbinder

➤ Threat Level: Minimal

Engagement Level: Low

He blinked. "Who said that?"

Nothing answered.

But a glowing brand now shimmered on the back of his hand — a tiny symbol, like thread wrapped around a needle.

A sigil.

He didn't know how he knew that, but he did.

He was picked up by villagers not long after. Starving, half-conscious, muttering about needles and ashes. They gave him bread, suspicious glances, and a shovel.

"You want to eat, boy?" the village chief said. "Earn it. Go scare the birds off the south fields."

And so Lumen, the boy once from Earth, now from nowhere, stood in a field dressed in patched rags and a sack mask to block the wind. He spread his arms, balanced on a wooden pole for fun, and scared crows by yelling things like, "Boo!" and "Taxes are due!"

The children started calling him the Scarecrow.

He laughed. So did the crows. But he did his job.

At night, when the wind quieted and the stars flickered like dying fireflies, he stared at his sigil and whispered, "What am I supposed to be?"

The sigil never answered.

But one night, something else did.

He saw it near the woods. A creature, hunched and steaming, dragging its limbs through the dirt like they didn't belong to it. Its eyes glowed blue like furnace glass. It wasn't just wrong. It was broken. As if stitched together by mistake.

Lumen froze.

The creature stopped.

Then charged.

He ran. It followed.

He tripped over roots, his sack mask falling. He turned, out of breath, thinking he'd die a second time.

But his sigil burned.

Threads. Real ones. Shot out from his fingers like needles, coiling around branches and dragging him out of reach. The creature slammed into a tree behind him and exploded in sparks.

It was a machine. A monster. A message.

His first fight — survived by accident, by instinct, by thread.

When the villagers found the smashed remains of the thing the next morning, someone whispered:

"The Scarecrow did it."

And just like that, a name began to form.

He sat alone that night under the stars, chewing stale bread.

The wind rustled the fields. Somewhere, a crow cawed.

He chuckled.

"Scarecrow, huh?" he said, holding up his hand, watching the sigil pulse like a heartbeat. "Guess I'm stuck with it."

But the stars didn't laugh.

They watched.

And so did something else, far beyond the sky, smiling.

Waiting.